


Long Live Will Graham

by Lthien



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail is dead, Character Death, Freddie Lounds to the rescue, Hannibal is on the move, Hannibal wants to 'save' Will Graham, Heartbroken Hannibal, Jack and Frederick plan to 'kill off' Will, M/M, Minor Character Death, Momma graham to the rescue, Poor Will Graham, Save everyone from hannibal tbh, Suicidal Will Graham, Will grahams mother, bedelia better watch out, bedelia du maurier - Freeform, distraught hannibal, hannibal apparently has a death kink bc chill, hannibal goes on a murder rampage, hannibal has it coming tbh, hannibal's 'person suit' is out the window, jack is in the hospital, poor hannibal, s2 hannibal, someone is trying to save will graham, unconscious will graham, will is hella doped
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-07 15:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10363890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lthien/pseuds/Lthien
Summary: S2 AU:Where, thinking it for the best (for Will’s sake) Jack teams up with Freddie to ‘kill Will Graham.’ After gutting him, Hannibal had every intention of having Will live. What would happen if instead of the article Freddie posted about Will being in the hospital, what if the lines were more:“WILL GRAHAM, SPECIAL AGENT OF THE FBI DIES AT THE HAND OF THE CHESAPEAKE RIPPER” ?





	1. The Plan

**Author's Note:**

> I said I would write it and I finally sat down to write the first chapter! I should be studying, and it's 2am LOL
> 
> I hope you like the 1st chapter! :)

The subtle _beep, beep,_ of Will’s heart monitor swelled within the hospital room. Beside him, sat Jack. The bags under his eyes were prominent, and the bandage wrapped around his neck looked like a noose. To him, it was.

In one hand Jack held the pole of the I.V. drip, his hand curled around it tightly. The sound of Will’s heart monitor echoed in his ears, the sound almost like a _promise._ Jack’s eyes landed on the bandage around Will’s torso, the blood long dry but the stitches still remained. They would for a long time, much like Jack’s own.

Jack had lost a lot of blood, and was on the verge of death when the cops finally showed up. Hannibal had got him deep, and his quick action of putting pressure on his wound probably saved his life. If asked, he remembered quite a bit. More so than he would like to admit. The scene that Hannibal left behind was one carved into his very soul.

When he was being taken out on a gurney he saw Will. He lay in a pool of blood, his body curled around what Jack later found to be the lifeless body of Abigail Hobbs. Someone he had already assumed dead. When he was put in the ambulance, he had briefly seen Alana being put in one too. He was grateful to lose consciousness, even if he thought he would die. After all, this death meant that he would not have to witness his beloved Bella’s own, as selfish as that was.

It was not meant to be, as he woke nearly a month later. Bella was by his side, her bed next to his own in the hospital. Her brown eyes were wet as they looked at him, and he wept for days. Jack’s throat was a constant pain, and his sobs did not help, but he could not stop it if he wanted to. His Bella had reached out to him, her fingers trembling meekly upon the metal bar of his cage.

Hannibal had destroyed everything within minutes. He had betrayed all of them, and so had Will. Will had _told him._ Will had betrayed them all, just to be gutted and left to die. Jack had asked about him when he finally stopped weeping, though it took days. He assumed Will dead—as dead as Miss Hobbs.

Will _lived._ Though his wounds were critical, even after being in the hospital for a little over a month. He had yet to wake, though the doctors assumed that he would. It was up to Will’s body now. He had to _fight_ , like Jack had.

To be honest, Jack was not sure if Will would recover. Be that both mentally and physically. Hannibal had wrapped him around his little finger, and Jack knew that he had tried to do the same. Both he and Hannibal _ruined_ Will Graham. Perhaps Will did not want to live, and this knowledge crushed what was left of Jack’s heart.

It took another three weeks for Jack to get out of his bed. He was weak still but he had to visit Will and Alana. Alana did not speak to him, her head turned away completely. It took a few days, but he eventually registered her silence. She blamed him. She blamed him for Will as she had months earlier, and a part of her blamed him for this sin too. However, her silence told him that she blamed herself too. For Abigail Hobbs, and for Will.

Jack visited Will nearly every day. He would sit and watch him breathe, watching the steam of his breath fog his mask. His heart feared it would suddenly stop, but it never did, even if Will’s breath stuttered in pain.

Will Graham had been lucky— _too_ lucky. The wound that Hannibal had left him with should have killed him. Or, it would have if Hannibal had _wanted_ it to. Hannibal wanted Will Graham to live…but why? That question kept Jack up nearly every night, and it was one of the many causes for his weight loss.

What was Will to Hannibal? The thought had struck him very suddenly one day while he was visiting Will. A nurse had been changing Will’s bandage, the rustic stain of blood causing Jack’s stomach to churn unpleasantly. He had followed Hannibal’s mark; the black stitches a gruesome sight to behold. Hannibal could have easily disemboweled Will then. It was what he had wanted Will to _know_. For them all to know.

“A real Sleeping Beauty, isn’t he?” Jack sighed at the voice, the man looking at the door. Frederick stood there nonchalantly. In one hand he held his cane and the other was tucked in his pocket. He was leaning up against the frame, smiling lopsidedly.

“Too long for my liking,” Jack acknowledged with another sigh. He looked back at Will. “He’s starting to stabilize. The doctors say he should wake any time now. He just…isn’t.”

“‘Doesn’t want to,’ you mean?” Frederick asked as he ventured further into the room, his eyes upon Will too. “Can you blame him, though? When he wakes up he will have to deal with _everything_. Alana Bloom, the _true_ death of Abigail Hobbs, and Hannibal himself…Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Frederick was at Will’s side then, his eyes boring into the unconscious man’s very being. Jack looked at him, his eyes sharp.

“Wonder what, Dr. Chilton?” Frederick looked at him, his face one of awe.

“Why Will isn’t _dead,_ of course! The death of Miss Hobbs was one planned for a long while, don’t you think? Was Hannibal saving her death for Will’s eyes alone? Why? What does Will mea—?”

“—Mean to Hannibal?” Jack finished solemnly. He ran his hands down his face. “Yeah, I know. I know…I want to know the same. However, Will…I really don’t think he will be much of use when he wakes, or _if_ he wakes. Will is _broken_ , Dr. Chilton. I know that— _hell_ , we all know that. I’m not sure I could bring myself to believe a word _out of his mouth_ —!” Jack started coughing, the older man gripping onto the pole of his I.V. drip.

“Jack—” Frederick seemed concerned but Jack waved him off, taking deep breaths through his stitched and gauzed throat.

“I’m fine; I’m good.” Jack wheezed as he managed to stop wheezing. His throat was on fire. “I’m just so… _betrayed_. I will never be able to trust him again.” Frederick nodded, both of them looking at Will.

“He is going to be more of a handful when he wakes.” Frederick said confidently. “Count on that. Don’t worry though, I’d be more than happy to help our dear Will collect the pieces Hannibal tore from him…We are much the same; all of us. After all, we have all been the victim of the Chesapeake Ripper, albeit Hannibal Lecter.” Jack winced, though it was not because of his wounds.

“We are nothing like Will Graham, and you know it. Hannibal _wanted_ him to live. Will is the only one that had gotten close to him…befriended the _real_ him. Will was _friends_ with the Ripper, Dr. Chilton, and he _betrayed_ him.”

“Will Graham broke his heart, then? Is that what you’re saying, Crawford?” Frederick’s eyes were lit up then, his eyes all but consuming Will.

“That is the minimum of what I am telling you, Frederick. Hannibal will be waiting for Will to wake, and Miss Lounds will undoubtedly be the one to tell him.”

“Hmm, very true. Miss Lounds’ blog picked up in popularity with the reveal of the Chesapeake Ripper, and the ghastly events that followed. She has her means, as well as ways of getting what she wants. Her words will alert the entire world when our little beauty here awakes.” Jack rolled his eyes at Frederick’s last few sentiments, his brain turning.

“Say…Jack. What if you use this against Dr. Lecter? Force him into a corner?”

“What are you on about, Frederick?” Jack huffed, rubbing his head. Frederick turned to him, his eyes even more bright.

“What if you _kill_ Will Graham—through _words_? Get Freddie first. Though the cost could be high, she could kill Will Graham. Hannibal would never have to know that Will _lived_.”

“What then, when Will wakes? Put him under FBI protection—hide him?” Frederick nodded.

“This could prove your theory, Jack. This, if it works, could draw Hannibal from hiding. If it does not work, then it would still save Will. It is better if Will Graham _is_ dead, even if for a while. This could help Will escape in a sense.” Jack’s eyes flickered back and forth in thought, his eyes landing on Will. It took a few minutes of silence, only the steady _beep, beep, beep,_ ringing in their ears. Eventually Jack looked up at Frederick, his eyes solemn.

“Can I trust you with this, Frederick? Can you get Miss Lounds in contact with me without problem?” Frederick smiled. He twirled his cane with a chuckle.

“Consider it done.”


	2. Good as Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can edit them all I want,” Freddie told them smugly. “What kind of dead do you want? Recent, a few days? I could even go as far as a week, if you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is short. I finally had time to sit down and type out the next chapter, but I'm posting it before class....which is in 10 minutes lolll
> 
> I hope you like it! Hopefully I'll have more time soon!!  
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos!!

“Uh, I’m sorry, what?” Freddie’s eyes were large as they took in Jack’s rigid facial expression. She huffed a laugh, swinging one leg across the other nervously. “You want me to _kill_ Will Graham for you? What next, when he wakes up? Jack, this is a mess that I’m not sure I want to be involved in!” Frederick huffed alongside Jack. They were all in Jack’s hospital room, the curtains drawn shut.

“We will pay you,” Jack told her simply. Her eyes twinkled then, her ruby lips curling upwards. She pretended to brush dust off her cheetah print skirt, folding her hands in her lap.

“I want protection, _and_ your money, Jack. If this goes up in flames, I want to be underground when it does. Got it?” Jack glared at her, but her smile only grew. “Careful not to strain any tendons, ‘kay? Those are my conditions, and they’re reasonable. In fact, I’m the only one in this room right now that Hannibal has not somehow maimed. I’d really like to keep it that way.”

“Don’t be such a bitch, okay, Lounds?” Frederick almost growled. “We are giving you a golden opportunity and you know it. You know what, though? I’m sure we could find someone else—”

“—Like _hell_ you will!” Freddie snapped, her flame-like curls wild. “As you said, Hannibal will be looking at _me_. You know why? Because I could have easily found a way into this hospital and taken pictures of Will…Say, as he lay vulnerable? Surrounded by medical equipment?” Freddie shrugged then, leaning back in her chair. Her eyes held a peculiar glint in them. “You never know, I may have them in my possession now.”

“You’re lying,” Jack huffed, his eyes narrowed. “No one in their right mind would let you in! Besides, Will Graham is under intense watch by not only the FBI, _me_ , and hospital personnel alike.”

“I have my ways,” Freddie said with a sultry wink, “Besides, Hannibal really got your pet good, didn’t he? Left him with a _wide_ smile…” Freddie make a jagged line against her own torso, perfectly mimicking Will’s wound. Frederick and Jack both paled then, both of them looking at one another. “Oh, _relax_. I have not posted them yet. If this works out in my favor, I won’t have to. Now, do we have a deal?”

“Freddie, this is _not a game_. This is for Will’s sake…and we do.” Jack said, his eyes filled with guilt. Freddie stood then, smoothing down her wild outfit with both hands. Her face was one of disbelief as she made her way to the door. She sighed loudly before tapping one knuckle on the door once, twice, and then once more. The door was opened for her then, an officer like a brick wall standing before her. She smiled at him, forced, before turning to Jack and Frederick.

“I’ll do it. Oh, and Jack? Are you sure this is just for Will, or is it for you too?” Jack’s face was shrouded in shadow then, his shame shown clearly. He looked at the officer that stood in front of Freddie, nodding at her purse. The man grabbed the purse, Freddie letting out an alarmed squeak of protest. She tried grabbing for the leather strap but it was easily handed over to Jack. The officer then grabbed Freddie by the arm, holding her still while Jack went through her bag. Frederick smiled at her smugly.

“That’s _invasive_ , and I could take you to court for this!” Freddie growled. Jack ignored her, pulling out a camera—Freddie’s. He looked at her then, eyebrows raised. Freddie snapped her mouth shut, flipping the curls from her face.

“You’re going to take _me_ to court? If I look on this camera I have no doubts that I will see pictures taken of Will Graham, but of other crime scenes that you have _obstructed_. Now, do I make your position here clear? This camera,” Jack shook it teasingly, “could be your very own downfall. Funny, isn’t it? Your own instrument becoming your very bane?” Freddie jerked her arm free and tried to compose herself.

“Pictures 63-71, are the ones your looking for, Crawford. Go on, take a look. I am _very good_ at my job, and I can turn those pictures into anything I want. You want Graham dead? He’s as good as gone. Go on, _look_!” Jack smiled and started going through the photos. Frederick looked on over Jack’s shoulder, whistling low at the pictures flashing upon the screen.

“You’re rather racy, Miss Lounds,” Frederick told her, his eyes not looking up from the screen. “If Will finds out you’ve taken these of him he will be rather _pissed_.”

“If that’s the word for it,” Jack muttered, his face a light red. Freddie smiled, crossing her arms over her chest. She smiled up at the officer next to her who clearly had no idea what was going on.

“I’ve covered all the important bits with a black box, so he’ll be fine! No scandal, only scars.”

“That’s a rather large black bo—”

“—Enough, Frederick!” Jack admonished, the man still going through the photos. “You’ve got a lot here, Freddie, but do you have enough?” Freddie blinked at him in shock.

“You’re saying, that if I wanted, you would let me take _more_?” Jack grumbled a bit, glaring at her.

“I’m saying that I’m not opposed as long as you’re s _upervised_. What is the computer system called? Photoedit? Photochange?” Freddie and Frederick both rolled their eyes.

“‘Photoshop’?” Freddie asked with a sigh. Jack nodded. Frederick’s eyes widened then.

“Ah, I see! Brilliant!”

“I can edit them all I want,” Freddie told them smugly. “What kind of dead do you want? Recent, a few days? I could even go as far as a week, if you need.”

“Recent,” Jack and Frederick said in unison.

“We want to make it as believable as we can, and it will be easier on you. Will already looks like he’s one foot in the grave. I doubt it will be very difficult to put him all the way into the casket.” Jack trailed off, his eyes sad. Frederick frowned and Freddie smiled wide, like a kid given the best toy in the world.

“Now, when can we start the photo session? I have so many ideas circulating in my head I don’t know where to even begin!” Jack glared at her while Frederick looked kind of excited, but he composed himself for Jack’s eyes.

“We can start now, if you’d like,” Jack groused out, coughing a bit. He put Freddie’s camera back in her bag and handed it to her. He then cleared his throat, one hand going to his bandage. “Let’s get this over with before Will wakes and nothing can be done.” Freddie and Frederick both nodded, Jack gesturing at the door. The officer opened it for them, following them out into the hall.

“Block off the hall that leads to Will Graham’s room for at least twenty minutes.” Jack told two officers, both nodding. “I want only authorized personnel allowed, got it? Miss Lounds is here by my request and will be accompanying Dr. Chilton and I. Tell no one of this.” The officers nodded and went off to do as Jack asked. Freddie whistled.

“Must be nice.” Freddie said. “I must say, it is rather nice being on this side, than in cuffs for once.”

“Liar,” Frederick said with a smug smile. Freddie shrugged.


	3. Long Live Will Graham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They would all drown in their blood and Hannibal would be the one to rip their throats out. This time he would use his teeth."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this chapter for about 6 hours now....holy crap. I'm so freaking pleased that this is done LOL  
> I really wanted to give you all that you've been waiting for, and Hannibal is a complete mess ok! 
> 
> (I feel so bad for Will though now ; w ;)
> 
> Leave me a comment? I have to do the homework I've been putting off now lol! I hope you enjoy <3 :)

When the first flood of pictures came in, Jack almost had to look away. He had tried to prepare himself, knowing that this was what needed to be done. However, the very first image had his blood pressure spike. It reminded him of the time when he had imagined Will the victim of the Chesapeake Ripper, for Will looked the same: gray skin, blue lips, and hauntingly milky eyes.

In each picture, Will’s hair was a shock of near black against sallow flesh. The tell-tale signs of decaying skin started around his horrid stitches, Freddie knowing _exactly_ where the ‘punch-line’ should be. As Jack looked at each edit, he knew that any of these would _ruin_ Hannibal. That is, if Jack’s hunch was right.

They had originally wanted to move Will to a metal gurney, but that idea was almost immediately shut down by the hospital staff. Will’s stitches were still healing, so they did what doctoring they could with what they had. Nurses had supervised their every move, telling what could or could not be done. One thing that was approved was the temporary removal of Will’s mask.

Will’s mask had been replaced with nasal breathing tubes, something that proved to be the most heartbreaking part. Jack had felt terrible doing it, but knew it would be easier for Freddie to edit the tubes out than the entire mask. He tried telling himself that it was for the greater good, but it was hard watching Will gasp and whimper as fumbling hands tried securing his nasal tubes.

As it were, Will was secretly removed from the hospital soon after. He was placed in FBI care, and taken somewhere not even Hannibal Lecter could hope to find. He would be safe. He could recover there, fully and without worry. It was a gift given to him by Jack. Jack pulling whatever cards he still had to place Will somewhere _nice_ and hopefully _tranquil_ —an apology of sorts for what they had done.

The final product resulted in a little over fifty images, all of which Freddie anonymously sent to Jack, with the subject being: _Choose your poison._ When Jack zoomed in he could not find any flaws in Freddie’s work, and it took a while for him to choose. He knew that Freddie probably had a few choices of her own, but he appreciated the incentive nonetheless.

Jack sent his choices to her as quickly as he could, his heart in his ears. Freddie was right, this was a risk they were taking, even if they were doing it as incognito as they possibly could. Will’s life was literally in their hands, and Jack feared what would happen when Will woke.

Jack stared at his monitor screen for a good while after, wondering if what they had done was really in Will’s best interest. Freddie’s words echoed in his mind: _Are you sure this is just for Will, or is it for you too?_ This was true too…Jack’s intentions were not for Will’s sake alone.

Jack cursed under his breath and slammed his computer shut. He balled his hands together and pressed his mouth against his wedding ring, trying to calm himself. Bella reached for him then, their hospital beds pressed together. Jack clasped her hands in his own, kissing them with closed eyes. It was done. No going back. All that waited now was for Freddie to post the chosen pictures. After that, it was up to fate…and Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

 _C’mon, you bastard_ , Jack thought vehemently, his rage boiling beneath the surface.

* * *

 

Freddie smiled at her screen, one polished finger tapping away at the spacebar. She ran her free hand through her wet locks, practically thrumming in place with excitement. She hummed with each passing picture, pleased. “Not bad, Jack. Not bad at all… _but_.” She bit her tongue with a cheeky smile as she dragged a few pictures over from another file. She pasted them along with Jack’s chosen few, the total coming up to eight. “… _These_ will really get the blood going.”

Freddie sat back in her chair, her finger hovering over the ‘enter’ button. As excited as she was, she was not stupid. They were playing with fire here. They were all taking a _huge_ risk. However, Hannibal Lecter _deserved_ this. He deserved a lot more.

Freddie practically slammed her finger down on the ‘enter’ key, the pictures and decided content loading on _TattleCrime_. When it was all uploaded, she shut her laptop. “Long live Will Graham,” Freddie whispered softly, placing her hand palm-down on the cold metal of her laptop.

* * *

 

Frederick’s phone buzzed in his jacket pocket and he was stopped mid-speech, one hand quickly going to his phone. “Ah, excuse me, gentlemen,” he told the two men accompanying him, both looking at him questioningly, and stepped aside. Frederick scrolled through the embedded link in his email, his blood cold at each passing picture. Freddie was terrifyingly good. If he didn’t know any better, he wouldn’t second guess Will’s passing, it was _that_ good.

Frederick tried not to smile. This was perfect. Freddie was worth every penny. He refrained from touching his dead eye but clenched his cane giddily. “Gentlemen,” Frederick said, feigning sadness. “I am sad to say that I must leave you. A past patient has passed and I must go bring whatever comfort I can to those involved.” He quickly left before any questions could be asked, smiling wider as he heard both of their cell-phones vibrate at the same time. 

Freddie worked _fast_. He spun his cane in one hand, pleased.

* * *

 

Hours later, Bedelia sat at a table, her eyes wide with shock. The glass of wine she held in her hand slipped and shattered to the floor, the crash making her jump. She covered her mouth with her hands as she read, “ **WILL GRAHAM, SPECIAL AGENT OF THE FBI DIES AT THE HAND OF THE CHESAPEAKE RIPPER**.” Bedelia could not bring herself to look at all the photos, all of them damning.

Her blood ran cold at the thought of Hannibal.

Nearly two months ago she had asked if Will Graham was dead, but Hannibal had told her that he _lived._ She had been very disappointed. Now? The thought was _terrifying._ After being with Hannibal for months, she had witnessed first-hand how he _pined_ after Will Graham. Jealousy had spiked through her, and it still did, even if she had access to Hannibal; albeit only _physically_.

Will Graham was undoubtedly Hannibal’s bane. Perhaps his only one.

This was a reckoning. This…this was _the end._

Bedelia jumped to her feet when she heard voices coming down the hall, her eyes growing even wider. Terrified, her legs began to backtrack, the crunch of glass loud under her heels.

“Verissimo, buon signore!” Hannibal’s voice praised, spiking Bedelia’s terror. She felt her back hit a wall, cornered. Hannibal opened the door, smiling. Behind him were two men that Bedelia knew to be art historians from the Palazzo. “…I toni ricchi della Conversione di St. Paul sono davvero brillanti ed è uno dei migliori…Ah, Lydia.” Hannibal trailed off, his pleasant demeanor changing as he took in her defensive stance.

The joy in his eyes turned into the sharp look of a predator. They saw _everything:_ the broken Baccarat wine glass, the aged wine seeping through the floor boards, and the blinding white of the computer screen. Hannibal’s hand curled around the wood of the ornate door, Bedelia gulping and shaking her head softly. Her eyes flickered at the men behind Hannibal.

“Dr. Fell?” One historian half laughed, awkward at the intensity in the air. Hannibal’s arm blocked their entry, and Hannibal ignored them both.

“Leave us,” Hannibal about gritted out, the two historians looking at each other and both huffing a laugh. Hannibal turned to them then, his silhouette all-consuming. His eyes were as the Devil’s. The men froze like deer in headlights.

“ _Signori, vi prego..._ ” Bedelia said, her voice high. She walked over to the door and touched Hannibal’s arm with shaking fingers. She could feel him tremble as well, the unknown triggering the beast within. Bedelia looked at the shocked men, trying to control her emotions. “Something has come up. It is best to reschedule your dinner.” She spoke these words to the men, but Hannibal knew them to be for his ears alone.

“Ah…” One man said, looking at Hannibal warily. “Very well…Buonanotte, dottor Fell, e signora Fe—” The man’s speech was cut-off when Hannibal slammed the door in their faces. Bedelia immediately jumped back. Hannibal gave her a tight-lipped smile, shedding his jacket and hanging it on the gilded hanger on the wall.

“You’re twitchy, _Lydia._ ” Hannibal purred falsely. He took a step forward while Bedelia took two back. “Why are you so… _skittish_?” Bedelia touched the oak table, her hand crawling its way to her opened laptop.

“I-I…” Bedelia sputtered rather uselessly, her hand blindly searching for the power button. Though it were already too late. Hannibal caught her hand, pulling her flush against him. Her eyes widened with utter fear, the cannibal’s face without empathy.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Hannibal told her simply, his voice like poison. He pushed her away from him and took the seat she had abandoned not ten minutes before. His shoes crunched the glass only deeper into the wood as he settled, Bedelia calling out to him as he touched the touchpad.

“ **WILL GRAHAM, SPECIAL AGENT OF THE FBI DIES AT THE HAND OF THE CHESAPEAKE RIPPER**.”

Hannibal simply blinked at the screen, the words not making any sense.

“ _H-Hannibal_ —” Bedelia half begged, tears in her eyes. Hannibal raised one trembling hand, the man visibly shaking. Bedelia half ran to the door, afraid, unwilling to partake in whatever madness was undoubtedly going to unfold. She left without taking anything with her, abandoning him to his own mind.

Hannibal was frozen, reading the words of Freddie Lounds:

 

> _Will Graham, age thirty-eight, passed away peacefully at John Hopkins Hospital July 28, 2014 from injuries sustained two months ago at the hand of Baltimore’s own Dr. Hannibal Lecter (The Chesapeake Ripper). Will Graham was born in rural Louisiana to John and Louisa Graham. Will Graham was a bright student and eventually became a Louisiana cop. However, Graham’s career was cut short after sustaining injuries in the field…_

Hannibal read on, Will’s life literally flashing before his eyes. As he scrolled down further the pictures began to pop up.

“… _Oh_ ,” Hannibal gushed out, unable to stop the tremor in his voice. After all the carnage he had seen over the years—most done by _his own hand—_ he could not look at the photos. He could not look at Will like that. Hannibal shook his head, his silver hair becoming disarray. “No, no, _no._ This is _wrong._ ” He looked down at his hands, watching them tremble. “ _Will…_ This is _wrong_.”

He was a _surgeon._ He knew where to cut. He knew where to harm— _maim_. Will Graham could _not_ die. He was _too_ strong for that…He—

 

> _After the slaughter at Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s house in Baltimore, MA, Will Graham was found curled around the body of Abigail Hobbs, the daughter of the Minnesota Shrike. After talking with another victim of the crime, FBI’s Jack Crawford, it can be confirmed that the cause of Will Graham’s death may be directly linked with the death of Abigail Hobbs:_
> 
> _“Will loved her as he would his own daughter,” Jack Crawford said in a recent interview. “She was already dead. The first death was bad enough, but this. Trust me when I say this killed him.” Crawford goes on to say…_

Hannibal pressed his hands to his eyes. He relived that moment every day since he left. He could still feel Abigail’s sustenance slick his hands. He could still feel how she sagged in his arms. If he closed his eyes, he could see Will’s heartbroken face vividly. He could feel Will’s blood…could feel him pressed against him as he bled out— _dying._

Hannibal nearly gagged as he went through all the pictures, his rage growing fiercer. They _dared_ to take pictures of him like this. They _dared_ to display Will _to the public_ in this manner. _Naked; raw_. Tears budded in Hannibal’s eyes, heartbroken. Will’s beauty was still haunting, even in death.

Will looked as lovely as a painting, his curls wild and almost black against dying skin. He reminded him of Peter Paul Reuben’s _The Death of Adonis._ The only mar to his beauty was the black stitches that kept him together: Hannibal’s mark. Will had gone up against a beast and lost. He had thrown himself in the path of the raging boar only to be torn…Only to _die._

Tears flowed down Hannibal’s face, the man making no sound as he wept.

He could see Will’s face behind his closed eyes. His blue eyes were so wide then, so frightened. Hannibal could feel the softness of Will’s cheek, the curvature of his ear…He could hear his pained gasp as the blade bit into him. The sound of Will’s blood nearly deafens him now. It flowed like a river, Will’s hand grabbing at his back desperately.

Hannibal had wanted to kiss his panting mouth, then. As he gasped, bleeding, Will was _tragically_ lovely. Now it was just another reminder of what could have been. Now the thought only added more woe and anger.

Hannibal’s hands clenched into trembling fists.

_Do you believe you could change me? The way I changed you?_

The cannibal looked up at the screen with demonic eyes, his hair shielding most of his face. Will’s swallow face mirrored in his teary eyes and he felt his nails bite into the meat of his palms.

_I already did._

“ _How dare you_ …” Hannibal growled, fat teardrops plopping onto the stained oak table. “How _dare_ you not save him…How dare _you-u_ …” Hannibal cursed himself. He cursed his very existence. “I should have…Should have taken you with me. I could have…have… _saved you._ But _you. You_ chose Crawford. _Y-you chose_ … _this_!” He shook his hands at the last picture of Will, the man’s milky irises peeking under half closed lids.

“ _Will_ … _Will_.” Hannibal touched the screen, his fingers faltering over Will’s scar. In a fit of rage Hannibal grabbed the laptop and threw it across the room. He let out a feral scream as he watched the screen crack and shatter, taking Will with it. He gripped his head as he continued to weep, damning his tears and bleeding heart. He tore at anything that he saw, tearing apart the life he had built with Bedelia.

Hannibal paused then, blood-lust growing. Bedelia had left without him knowing. She had fled. “ _Bitch..._!” The cannibal growled and hurled a crystal vase at the front door. He panted and heaved, the beast within him carnivorous. Hannibal would taste blood tonight. Be it Bedelia’s or someone else's. He _needed it_. Their screams would be nothing to the ones that Jack Crawford would release… _Freddie Lounds’._

They would all drown in their blood and Hannibal would be the one to rip their throats out. This time he would use his _teeth_.


	4. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“W-Will…?” Hannibal half whispered, shaking the man in his arms, one hand going into Will’s wet curls. He felt so cold. Hannibal pulled Will back and let out a sharp cry at the milky hue of Will’s eyes.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I left this for so long!!! I just got out for the summer, so hopefully I'll have more time to write!! I hope you enjoy this chapter!! :) 
> 
> update: DO NOT TRY AND POST AN UPDATE AT 4AM BC YOU WILL BE TIRED AND DERP OUT AND PUT 'PARIS' INSTEAD OF ITALY *I can't believe I did that, omg*

“Hannibal—Hannibal,” A voice called through a fog and Hannibal let out an irritated sigh. He blinked, groggy, and covered his eyes when bright light assaulted his irises. He could taste the rancidness of alcohol and he clicked his tongue, groaning long.

“Bedelia…what time is it?” Hannibal asked, rather uninterested. He rubbed his eyes with both hands, feeling like he had forgotten something important. It was a _terrible_ feeling. “Bedelia?” Hannibal snapped after a minute, growing angry. He leaned up and rubbed his eyes. He blinked, and where he thought Bedelia to be sat Will Graham.

Will was perched on his bed, his blue eyes soft and smile warm. He looked the same as he had _before_ : soft curls, his useless glasses that sat upon his regal nose gently, hiding his eyes— _sane._

“Will? How are you—?” Hannibal asked, confused, and tried sitting up. Will shushed him and placed his hands on the cannibal’s chest, stopping his movements. Hannibal’s eyes swelled with tears, damning his emotions. He _missed_ him _._ “Will…Oh, _Will_ , how did you find me?”

Will said nothing and wiped his wet cheeks with his fingers. Hannibal shivered, the touch wrong. He gripped onto the cold hand, his eyebrows furrowing. Hannibal pulled the younger man’s hand away from his face, his eyes widening.

Will’s hand was smeared with blood. “… _Will_?”

“Hannibal, why did you kill me?” Will asked, simply, his voice lacking all empathy.

Hannibal’s blood froze in his veins then. He blinked, and the younger man was suddenly the same as he had left him: wet and _bleeding._ Will’s face was splattered with blood— _Abigail’s_. His dark brown shirt was almost black where blood flowed from a wound that should have been long healed. He held one trembling hand to his stomach, the one that had been pressed against Hannibal’s face. Will sat completely still, the sound of his flowing blood loud in the room. Hannibal let out a harsh sound, completely ensnared by the tears in Will’s eyes.

“Why…? Why Hannibal? _Why did you do it_?” Will begged, his voice broken. Blood stained his teeth. Hannibal shook his head, his eyes wide.

“I-I didn’t _kill_ you, Will—” Hannibal told him meekly, tears beginning to run down his face. Will smiled, forced. Blood trickled from his mouth, his tears turning red.

“But you did. You did, _Hannibal_ —” Will told him simply, coughing up blood. Will was choking on crimson and Hannibal did not know what to do. He grasped the younger man by the upper arms and Will let out a sharp cry, like he had when Hannibal’s blade first pierced him.

It was like reliving the same nightmare all over again: Will pawed at his back like he had before, the tendons in his neck strained, gasping for breath. Hannibal looked on, horrified. He blinked and he could feel where his hand gripped the handle of a blade. He looked down and it was the very same blade that had gutted Will before.

“ _Why?_ ” Will begged again and jolted as if the blade had sliced him through all over again. He fell forward, limp, and Hannibal dropped the blade in his hand to catch him. Hannibal’s eyes were wide, unsure what was happening. Will was terribly _limp_.

The sound of blood was deafening.

“W-Will…?” Hannibal half whispered, shaking the man in his arms, one hand going into Will’s wet curls. He felt _so cold_. Hannibal pulled Will back and let out a sharp cry at the milky hue of Will’s eyes.

He was dead.

Will was _dead_ —

Hannibal woke with a jolt, surging upwards. The taste of alcohol was on his tongue and the distinct tang of blood. His heart spiked. “W-Will?” He croaked and looked around, not sure where he was. It was dark, and it smelled of oil and rust. A factory of some kind.

A nightmare?

What a very _vivid_ , torturous, nightmare…

Hannibal rubbed his face with his hands, jerking away when he felt what he knew to be blood smear across his face. Confused, he jumped to his feet, alert. For once, Hannibal was terrified of what he would find—his dream flowing into reality. When he could not find Will Graham’s bloodied corpse he sighed long and hard. He let out a soft sob, slowly recalling everything.

Hannibal rose to his feet, rubbing the rest of the blood on his pants; knowing that his entire suit was undoubtedly ruined. He had left behind his plastic suit. He looked down at the closest body that lay on the ground, irritated. His tongue swiped against his teeth, the iron taste of blood still present. With a frown of disdain, he lifted one leather-clad foot and turned the swallow face over, investigating his terror.

“Oh dear…Didn’t run as fast as you thought, did you?” The cannibal _tsk-_ ed, glaring down at the flaming red hair of his victim. He remembered her then. Her curls had _angered_ him. The alcohol on his tongue had made him… _irrational._

Her scream of terror was lovely, really. Though, it did not belong to the right _person._ It had been invigorating tearing her throat open. It felt… _grounding._ When closing his eyes, Hannibal could remember how her hot blood felt running down his throat. It was a carnal desire he had not had in _years_ …Not since Mischa’s death.

Hannibal closed his eyes, envisioning what the expression of Freddie Lounds would be when his teeth closed around _her_ trachea. His fingers trembled, thinking of how he could maim her. He would take her hands first. They would be _pristine_ —his trophy: his trophy for _Will._ After that…who knows? She would not be worth the show. None of them would.

He would kill them and take Will. He would bury him…Maybe near a stream? Maybe…Maybe he would take him _home._

Hannibal frowned at the idea. He had not been _home_ in nearly three decades. He did not fancy the thought of going back _at all_. However, the thought of Will being buried on his land—his family’s— _excited_ him.

Hannibal looked around, finding himself in a warehouse of sorts; his first thoughts correct. He had blacked out at some point, apparently. It was not like him. None of this was. It was… _theirs._ It was the _lie_ that was thrown at him through a computer screen—the monstrosity of Will Graham’s _death._ Hannibal could not bring himself to believe Will to be dead.

He would have to see it for his own eyes.

Either way, Jack Crawford and Freddie Lounds were dead. The fact that Jack was still alive made Hannibal’s teeth clench in anger. He would rip the stitches from him and watch him bleed out. Hannibal would be the last thing Jack saw, right before he ripped the heart from his beloved Bella’s chest. For now, he would deal with Bedelia.

Hannibal looked down at his watch, smearing away the blood on its face. It was early, only a little past 7am. Early enough to catch a flight. First he had to clean himself up, and then he would deal with Bedelia. He left, uncaring of the multiple bodies behind him. He knew Florence well. Covered in blood or not, he knew how to get ‘home’ safely; having done so many years before.

* * *

 

Everything was _insane._ Not twenty-four hours had passed since Will Graham’s ‘death,’ and the entire world was at Jack Crawford’s throat. They wanted to know _everything._ They wanted to know everything he knew about Will, even if he had already told Freddie Lounds. They wanted _his_ words. So, they followed him around the hospital, like a pack of wolves.

They also wanted more on Hannibal. It was always _Hannibal_. Even when it was Will who had paid the price, they were always connected somehow. It set Jack’s teeth on edge. It made his blood boil.

The media was ultimately _ravenous_ when it came to Will and Hannibal’s relationship. They wanted to know how close they were, and what Jack thought Hannibal would think about Will’s death, even if it was by his hand. To the reporter who had asked that very question, Jack made him taste his own blood. He had punched the man in the mouth, other reporters flailing behind him as they struggled to get out of the falling man’s way.

“No more questions!” Jack had snarled, vicious. “Whatever Hannibal thinks is no damn issue of mine! He killed my friend! He _killed…_ everything!” Jack did not have to fake the pain in his voice, both physically and mentally. The reporters were less avid to ask him after that, Jack’s outbreak nearly causing a lawsuit. Not that Jack cared. He was _done_ pretending that everything was fine, when it really was not.

He had killed Will Graham. He had buried him alive, and every day he felt all the guiltier for it. What was worse was knowing that Will was still unconscious, and no one knew when he would wake. Or if he would. What Jack feared was that Will would truly die, and the funeral they were planning now—a fake one—would be his _true_ one. An empty casket, but filled grave.

Jack was _sick_. So, he decided to wait. For either Will or Hannibal; maybe both. One of them was bound to make a move soon. He knew that; he even felt it in his very bones.

Will and Hannibal.

Were they _both_ on the move? What storm was coming for them now? And was it his own fault, yet again?

* * *

 

Freddie was beyond proud of herself. Her work was flawless, as usual, and she played the troubled victim very well, crying when questions about what she had witnessed, and been through, over the past few months were asked of her. She told the media that she was ‘sorry’ for any hurtful things she had said about Will, and called him a ‘good man.’

She wanted Will Graham’s story, so she tried to erase whatever ill words she had said about him. That way, should Will come back, she would possibly have a better footing with him. Perhaps Abigail Hobbs’ story could be finished through the words of Will Graham; both of their stories becoming her legacy.

She could hardly wait, even if her skin constantly crawled at Hannibal Lecter’s name. Only the thought of Jack’s promise to her made her feel safe, even if it was a small amount. If Jack did not come through, she had _other_ means of securing her safety. Her bags were packed the night she had agreed to do this; as well as an immediate flight.

It was a waiting game, now.

* * *

 

Frederick was ecstatic, but he decided to stay to himself, mostly. He feared Hannibal’s wrath, after all, and he had nearly died because of it before. He tried to make his connection to Jack less, and so did Jack. None of them talked to one another in one setting, and Frederick was very pleased.

Like Jack and Freddie, he received many questions too. After all, having held Will Graham for months, the people knew that he had personally been in his head. They wanted to know what conversations Will and Hannibal had had behind closed doors—or bars, as it were.

Frederick had spent _hours_ going through every one of their conversations. At this point, he could spout a line perfectly, like it was from his favorite movie. Hannibal and Will were an entity that bothered Frederick deeply.

They circled each other like sharks—two beasts squaring off, fighting for territory. The film he had captured those few months were downright unnerving themselves. Neither of them backed down, even if one were behind a cage. Their minds were their true power, and Frederick could understand Hannibal’s deep _interest_ in Will Graham’s mind.

It was a lovely, vicious, thing.

Hannibal wanted to own it in every way—own _Will Graham._ But, for what other reason? For a man like Hannibal Lecter—who was hardly a man at all—what did he see in Will that made him want to claim him? It was what had piqued Frederick’s own desire. He wanted to know Will Graham too—see what Hannibal had.

What an interesting thing, indeed. To understand a man that had ensnared the very soul of a monster…someone who could very well be a monster himself. It was so deliciously tantalizing, and Frederick could not wait for Will to wake up.

* * *

 

Bedelia’s bags were already packed, the woman planning on escaping for quite some time. The flat that she and Hannibal had shared was torn apart, the beast in Hannibal displayed quite openly. It was fight or flight, and Bedelia had always chosen to ‘fly.’ Preferably, ‘first class.'

So, Bedelia took her things in the middle of the night and went off on her own, stopping to find a motel along the way—a cheap one, in hopes of derailing Hannibal’s keen scent. In the morning, she was on the move. After seeing Hannibal’s reaction to the news of Will Graham, she knew that she could no longer flirt with death. If she stayed, she could very well end up on Hannibal Lecter’s silver Medici dinner platter.

She had waited for Hannibal to make _his_ move the night before; and he did so in a way that shocked her very core: he got smash-faced _drunk._ Bedelia saw a side of Hannibal that she had not thought existed: utterly human and downright _terrifying._ Hannibal was beyond distraught, and when she saw him nearly crash out into the street, his hair disheveled, and body lacking all forms of his ‘person-suit’ she knew that the beast that was unleashed into the streets of Italy was one of nightmare. Bedelia could only watch the monster stagger off into the bustling night, knowing very well that the bloodbath that followed would be one Paris could never see coming. It was the end of their ‘honeymoon,’ for the slaughter Hannibal would cause would be his downfall, and Bedelia was sure to get herself far away when redemption came.

She could hardly keep herself from running through the airport, her long-purchased ticket clutched tightly in her free hand. Her other trembled as it clutched her suitcase. She knew that she looked a wreck; having honestly been too terrified to sleep. When she reached the front desk, she could barely keep herself from bursting into tears.

“Buongiorno!” The receptionist greeted, her eyes undoubtedly roaming down Bedelia’s rumpled person. Bedelia rubbed at the smudged mascara beneath her eyes, nervous. She immediately went to pull out her ticket from the envelope she had placed it in and about choked on her tongue when she found it gone. She inspected the envelope’s closing with shaking hands, finding the seam torn.

Hannibal had taken it.

He had _stolen it!_

Bedelia started searching everywhere, half crying; hysterical. The receptionist watched on, confused and horrified, as Bedelia half screamed in frustration. Hannibal _knew. Of course,_ he _knew._ She had no choice but to go back now. He knew that, too; had made sure of it.

Distraught, Bedelia wept openly as she left the airport, people staring after her as she left, unsure whether to confront her. When she got outside she tried to console herself, knowing that she would need a clear head when she came in from of Hannibal; and perhaps a gun. She patted her purse, knowing that the small gun she always hid with her _was_ still there. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

She about had a heart attack when a taxi pulled up. Even before the back door was opened, Bedelia knew it was Hannibal. The driver nodded his head at her, expecting her to get in.

“Buongiorno,” Hannibal greeted, a false kindness to his voice. He wore a crisp black suit, and a brilliant crimson tie that made Bedelia’s blood curdle in her veins. He wore dark shades, and he had purposefully tousled his graying hair—still wet from his shower.

Bedelia could see the hardness of his body—his anger, for he held his body sharp and as rigid as a blade. He patted the open seat next to him, like beckoning a dog, and Bedelia immediately got in the car. She tried to pull her suitcase in too, but Hannibal reached over and shut the door behind her, leaving her suitcase on the side of the road—everything she owned that could possibly save her life; except her small handgun in her purse, but she knew he would kill her before she could even move.

Instead, Bedelia placed her trembling hand upon the glass, listening to Hannibal tell the driver to go, and was forced to watch as her possessions were left behind. She pressed herself as close to the door as she could, Hannibal’s smile like a knife in her back. He sighed, sounding bored, and uncrossed his legs and crossed them again. Bedelia watched him from the corner of her teary eyes, utterly petrified.

His ‘person-suit’ was still completely off. He was naked—a beast raw and _carnivorous._  

“A predator can smell fear,” Hannibal said after a while, tapping his nose with one finger, his smile treacherous. “And yours… _Sweet_ Lydia, called to me the moment you flew with me to Italy. Surely you knew? Knew it would come to an… _understanding_ in such a way as this?” Bedelia squeaked when Hannibal reached over and gripped her face in his large hand, forcing her to look at him. “Would you like to know what you smell like?” His fake smile dropped then, revealing his true face. Bedelia wanted to scream.


	5. Sedation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was alone again, and the silence teased the demons in his mind. In the silence, he could hear the opera, and the song only grew more brilliant with each gurgled cry that ended at his hand—his blade. He was writing a symphony. It was all for Will, and Hannibal hoped that he could hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long!! I've been non-stop working, so I spent my evening writing this ahaha! I hope you enjoy it! ;)

Everything was red—bright and deep; _crimson_. He could taste it, metallic and thick. It threatened to drown all in its path. It consumed them all, and Will could do nothing but gasp and bleed. He could do nothing for Abigail, his fingers long cold as they trembled underneath her dying flesh. His stomach twitched as his blood continued to flow, endless as it mixed with Abigail’s own.

 Will lay his head down, cheek first, and saw the nightmarish stag from before. It was injured and it gasped as they did, it’s heavy breathing overpowering Abigail’s faint breath. Will watched it, unblinking. It was dying. They were dying. Will let out a faint breath, closing his eyes. The crimson began to rise, the warm substance claiming them as its own.

 Will could feel himself sinking. He knew himself to be dead. He knew—knew that Abigail was gone. That everything was gone. He knew—knew it all, but wanted to deny it. Every fiber of his being wanted to _deny_. The Devil be willing, he wanted to see Abigail. Let him take her pain, _please_. As unspoken as it was, his plea was his remaining. It was all that was left of Will Graham—a whisper.

He was sinking lower, darker into the depths; alone. He could feel himself shatter into a billion pieces, and then somehow coming back together.

Will’s eyes flew open, a wet gasp falling from his parted lips. His eyes searched wildly, alarmed. He was _choking._ With trembling fingers, he tore off his mask and ripped the needle from his forearm. The pain only helped him focus, his eyes feeling like two marbles in a round bowl. Will tried to sit up but found that he could not. Pain ripped itself through his abdomen. He blinked slowly and found multiple hands pressing him down. People he did not know immediately flanked him, dozens of words thrown at him at once.

“ _Abigail_ ,” was his response; his only. “ _Abigail_.”

* * *

 

Six days, seven hours, and thirty-five minutes after his ‘death’ Will Graham woke up. He had awoken two days before his official burial. Frederick had flown out not an hour after hearing the news. Jack?

Jack sat alone for a solid two days; just _silent_. He was happy, yes. He was also mortified. The dice was thrown, and the devils were beginning to nibble. Now? God…what was he to tell Will? The truth—a lie? What would hurt him less? Anything?

Jack knew deep in his heart that this…what they had done to Will, would forever drive a wedge between them. As would _that night._ They were not the same as they were before. Him, Alana, and even Frederick. Will was undoubtedly the same; if not worse.

What had Hannibal torn from Will that night, besides his flesh? Something haunted Jack’s mind about Will’s wound. If thinking deeper, the scar could have a _branding_ effect to it. Hannibal Lecter may have just as well written his name. What would Will do when he saw it? Jack’s head was filled to the brim with questions, all of which only Will could answer.

“You should talk to him,” A grave voice told Jack, causing the man to blink out of his trance. He looked at Bella sadly. She was still able to sit upward in the hospital bed, but only just. Her skin was an ash gray. She smiled at him softly, ever tired.

“And tell him what exactly?” Jack said, his voice uncharacteristically small. “Tell me and I will do it. Everything is such a mess…” He trailed off, his eyes going to a worn newspaper at his bedside table. The headlines read: FOUR MORE SLAUGHTERED BY ‘IL MONSTRO.’ There were two others under it, all victims that Jack _knew_ to be Hannibal. They were growing larger in numbers daily. He was in Italy, perhaps Florence. He was reacting as they had hoped. However…the body count, it was downright horrifying. They should have thought it out better; _longer._

Bella sighed, her nose almost whistling through her nasal tubes. She reached out and clasped his hand, patting it like she would a child. “He is your friend. He deserves to know the truth, and you know that. He may need you more than ever now. You are all he has.” Jack frowned, shaking his head.

“He _was_ my friend, Bella. He chose Hannibal…Chose a _monster_.” Bella shook her head, her brown eyes compassionate.

“Hannibal Lecter is a con-man. You know this as well as I. He tricks and pushes every button he can to try and get under your skin. He got under mine. He is the Devil, and he won in the fight over Will Graham— _once_. Jack, you have him back! He _needs_ you, and you must not let him touch that darkness again.”

“Will has always had a certain ‘darkness.’” Jack mumbled in response. “Hannibal just helped it grow.”

“Help him,” Bella told him simply, her voice determined. “Help him fight this. He has to win this battle, not only for himself, but for his Abigail.” Jack’s face fell more then, his heart deeply saddened.

“No one has told him yet,” Jack whispered, ashamed. “From what Frederick has told me, Will has been ‘talking’ to her. He…uh…Will thought Frederick to be Abigail. If only for a split second before the nurses sedated him again. Frederick thought it to be ‘thought-provoking.’” Jack huffed an annoyed laugh, running one hand down his face.

“He’s mad, then?” Bella asked, eyebrows high upon her forehead. Jack simply looked at her, his eyes calculating.

“When wasn’t he?”

* * *

 

 Hannibal was restless. He was leaving behind a trail, and he knew it. He was anxious to see what Jack would do. Would he try and follow him? Hannibal had given him nearly a week to do so with no result. He had slaughtered nearly twenty, earning his old name and a rekindled fear. He even had a detective on his trail—one that he gutted in an open display, a silent irony that Florence no doubt knew and understood. Not that any of that mattered, really. Hannibal was over it all. Humanity—civility; it had never mattered less that it did then. Everything that held meaning was gone, and he had lost his fun with the world.

 As for Bedelia, he had roasted her limbs one-by-one, happy when shock registered in and she became silent. In fact, she was silent from the very first meal. He had cooked her left leg first, delicately wrapping it in leaves. It was a delicious meal, but he would have preferred to have savored it in the company of… _another_.

After all, Bedelia had been too drugged and in shock to participate, so Hannibal finished her off rather quickly, like an ancient dragon bored with its latest captive. He ate her entirety, cleaning her bones and disposing of them efficiently. No one would know she came with him, and no one would ever ask. Bedelia du Maurier was gone forever. 

He was alone again, and the silence teased the demons in his mind. In the silence, he could hear the opera, and the song only grew more brilliant with each gurgled cry that ended at his hand—his blade. He was writing a symphony. It was all for Will, and Hannibal hoped that he could hear it.

 Hannibal moved as he had in his youth, letting his instincts take over. He was _on the move_ , the beauty of Florence growing a deeper crimson. He did not know if he would return, but the beauty that he had created would linger in his mind palace forever. It had been a week, and Hannibal had a funeral to attend, and a few more as consequence.

* * *

 

Will’s mind was floating in a hazy cloud, the pain medication the doctors had been giving him keeping him blessedly languid. What had helped him truly rest was Abigail. He saw her. Time reversed, and the teacup truly came together.

Hannibal had given her back to him.

_Liar. Lies, lies, lies._

She looked good despite it all, a fresh bandage upon an enlarged scar. She was alive.

_Lies, lies, lies, lies._

He could see it vividly behind his eyes. Hannibal’s horror reversed, and Abigail arose from the sea of blood and was wide-eyed and shocked within Hannibal’s grasp; whole. It was surgical. He knew where to cut her. He wanted her to live; wanted them both to live.

_Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies._

“How do you feel?”

Will groaned and smacked his lips, feeling how coarse they were. “Thirsty,” he replied automatically, his eyes opening in slits. A doctor stood before him, a plastic cup with a bendy-straw ready for him. He craned his neck and took a sip, gasping when he was done, exhausted. He let his head fall back on his pillow, the doctor scribbling away on his clipboard. He looked up, smiling professionally. “Feel well enough for a visitor?” Will did not have time to reply before the doctor left and someone else came before him: Abigail.

Her face was emotionless. Will swallowed, his mouth dry again. “Abigail,” He mumbled and Abigail’s eyebrows furrowed a bit. She smiled and shook her head with a sigh. She came closer and Will sniffed the air, the smell of flowers lingering upon her, growing stronger the closer she came.

_He knew exactly how to cut you. They said it was surgical. He wanted you to live._

“He knew exactly how to cut me. They said it was surgical. He wanted us to live." 

“He left us to die.” Will said stiffly, his mind swirling aimlessly. His fingers curled upon his white bed-sheet, trembling. 

“But we didn’t,” Abigail said, and perched upon his bed. “I was supposed to leave with him. We were all supposed to leave together. He made a place for us.” Will looked down, his fists clenching. “Abigail—”

“—Why did you lie to him?”

Frederick watched Will with keen interest. With every question he asked, Will’s mind seemed to re-arrange the words to make them less painful. They created a world where Abigail Hobbs existed—one that Will had cleverly constructed himself in a fir of madness.

“Interesting,” Frederick said, smiling widely. “Then what you’re saying is, since everything that happens is destined to happen, then you can never truly do the wrong thing? That we’re all just doing what we’re supposed to?” Will simply nodded, his unfocused gaze shifting to the ceiling.

“He wants us to find him,” Will said after a moment of silence, swallowing his tears. “… _Go to him_.” Frederick’s eyes widened, all of their fears being true. Frederick got up from where he sat and Will looked at him confusedly, one of his hands reaching for him sadly, broken, as he left the room altogether.

As Frederick left the room he passed a nurse. He stopped her, frowning. “William Graham may need another sedative. He just complained about the pain.” The nurse’s eyebrows furrowed and she immediately went to do Frederick’s bidding.

Frederick immediately pulled out his phone and speed-dialed Jack. Jack picked up on the second ring.

_‘Everything okay? Has he talked?’_

“You were right,” Frederick hissed into the phone, his smile giving away his pleasure. “Will truly does mean something more to Hannibal, and you won’t believe all that he has just told me—well, Abigail Hobbs—but that’s another story entirely! Will told me where he _is_. He remembers because it was what Hannibal _intended_. Jack, Hannibal had every intention of Will coming to him.”

 _‘…The papers have told us that already, Frederick. You know this. He is in Florence, or at least he was. What else did he say?’_ Frederick frowned, put-out.

“You’re really no fun, you know that?”

_‘How many more lives must be lost before it finally registers in your brain that this is not a game, Frederick? Call me back in the morning. I…I want to talk to him.’_

Frederick frowned more then, confused. “Will you be flying in, then?”

 _‘Not for now. I will be soon. I have to keep up the farce here for a while before I do. At least until Will is ‘buried.’’_ Frederick nodded, his face serious.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, then. I just asked a nurse to dope him up again. He should sleep for at least twelve hours or so. I know he’s been drugged off and on since he’s been topsy-turvy but I don’t want him to collapse in on himself. You should see his eyes. They’re practically floating in their sockets, and it’s _not_ because of the drugs. Jack, Will is broken.”

 _‘…We’ll fix him. We need him to be ready.’_ Frederick nodded solemnly, feeling a chill run down his spine.

“We all need to be ready,” Frederick ended and hung up. He tucked his phone back into his jacket pocket and gave once last lingering look to Will’s door before he left, the weight on his cane feeling ever the more persistent and damning.


	6. In Another World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As blood flowed into him, Abigail’s blood was exchanged with embalming fluid. While they stitched him, they had stitched her too. Everything was reversed. It was the end…of everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is shorter than the others, but I have not had much time to work on this (though I really want too). I also wanted to dedicate a chapter to focus more on Will...This poor man. I honestly cried when I tried to imagine what he would be thinking--what his mind would be going through--and it just broke my heart. I can't imagine him thinking much more than self-loathing and having an incredible amount of rage and woe. Like the show, really.
> 
> Also. It did not help that I was listening to Fever Rey's cover of 'Mercy Street' when I wrote this. So the song really 'helped' lolll
> 
> SOMEONE PLEASE HELP THIS CHILD. PLEASE. ; w ; !!

Will sucked in a slow, pained breath, his eyes opening in alarm. His fingers slid across his torso, blood pooling beneath them. He huffed painfully, propping himself up on one elbow in his hospital bed. It felt like something were clawing its way out of his body. His eyes widened when an antler pierced through, coming out a wound that resembled a deep bite. He blinked and found his fingers clean after clearly seeing and feeling the pain. He sucked in a low breath and looked around. Will blinked in shock, the all too familiar crimson walls of Hannibal’s office coming into view. His hospital bed was in the middle of it.

Without thinking of the pain, the IV tubes in his arm were pulled from his arm, Will wincing as he forced himself not to think of the blood that flowed because of it. His pain was not important. What was: _Hannibal_. He was near, Will could sense it. He pulled himself out of the bed, and when his feet hit the floor they were clad in shoes. He was clothed again, and was _whole_. Will was as he was before: healthy, and one scar less.

Papers fell from above and Will watched as if in a daze, remembering this time as if it were just yesterday. One in particular caught his eye, his name written by his own hand coming into view. He reached for it and found one of his askew clocks. He felt a rekindled betrayal, and the paper soon burst into flames in his hand, the ffire taking the numbers away as it had the day he had planned to run away with Hannibal.

“When we have gone from this life, I will always have this place.” Hannibal’s voice said calmly and Will felt as if it was whispered directly into his ear. Will watched from afar, like an illusion, as Hannibal and he discussed a distant conversation.

“In your memory palace?” Will remembered asking, a curious smile warping his lips.

“My palace is vast, even by medieval standards.” Hannibal told him with a smile. “The foyer is of Norman Chapel in Palermo. Severe, beautiful, and timeless, with a single reminder of mortality; a skull, graven in the floor.” Will saw himself turn away from Hannibal then, and in one eerie moment he saw himself reflected in his own eyes.

Turning around himself, Will looked down at a pile of papers scattered across the floor. He knelt down, a stream of papers fluttering around him, and started to push the papers away. A skeleton revealed itself and Will saw a divine light shine above him, more bright than God had ever show him.

He could hear the _opera._ It was crystal clear and serene, and he saw the immense grandeur of a coffered chapel ceiling above him. It was as if Hannibal’s words had come to life; animated for Will’s mind only.

It was lovely.

Will rose to his feet slowly, the music filling his entire being. It was _Hannibal_ , and it was terribly heart-breaking. Hannibal was calling him; heartbroken.

“Will?” Frederick called softly, a flicker of fear in his eyes. Will had been staring up at the ceiling for nearly an hour, almost unblinking, silent, a small smile on his lips. In a quick motion Will’s eyes were upon him, and Frederick was frozen on the spot, the hair on his arms raised high.

“Hello, Frederick,” was Will’s simple response, his first directed at Dr. Chilton. Frederick huffed a rather weak laugh, feeling all the more uneasy under Will’s swallow stare.

“Not ‘Abigail’ this time?” Frederick asked, grabbing the closest chair and sitting in it. Will’s eyebrows furrowed, confused.

“Abigail?” Will murmured, soft. His chapped lips trembled, the name broken. Frederick watched as Will petted his bandaged torso sadly. He looked like a child, small, frail, and frightened in his bed. Frederick wondered then how he had feared him, even if for just a second. Will was broken, after all.

“Do you remember then, Will? Remember it all?” Frederick asked, his hands coming together over one crossed knee. “Remember what had happened to you—to Abi—?”

“— _I don’t wish to hear it_!” Will cried and pressed his hands to his ears. He trembled and tears fell without his knowing. Behind his purpled lids he saw her whole. He could hear her voice, talking to him as she had before, her smile beautiful and her eyes bright. Was it all a memory? All a farse?

Why was she cut from him so savagely?

Will pressed against his bandage harder, hissing a pained breath. The pain helped ground himself in the present, even if he could still hear Abigail behind his closed lids. It was so easy for the two worlds to collide, and Will struggled to keep them both at bay.

“Will— _Will_! I need you to calm down—your wound!” Frederick told him with forced calm, watching as Will’s heart monitor continued to spike as his reality came crashing together. Will’s eyes flew open then, and his fingers began to claw at his bandage, trying to get it off. He tried sitting up and his entire world began to spin.

“I-I-I need to see it!” Will rambled over and over, his trembling fingers useless. Frederick shook his head, reaching over to Will’s monitor and pressed the button for the Nurses Station. Will watched him in shock, his blue eyes growing stormy in his anger. He only tried harder then, spurred on by his rage and confusion.

“Will, stop! You’re going to hurt yourself!” Frederick cried and grabbed his wrists. Will’s hair flew as he tried to fight back, horrified when he suddenly saw how bony his wrists were. He stopped trying then—realizing he had not really put up much of a fight—and he silently compared his wrists to Frederick’s own. He was paler than before, and he could almost see every joint in his fingers.

Was he dying? Was that why he could not look at it?

“Am I dying, Frederick?” Will asked meekly, Frederick’s hands still wrapped around Will’s wrists, his fingers nearly overlapping. Brown eyes met a teary blue, then, awestruck. Three nurses chose that moment to barge in, alarmed, and Will and Frederick both looked at them. Will looked alarmed, frightened, and Frederick only looked angry; even if it was him that called them.

“Leave us, it was a mistake,” Frederick told them simply, turning back to Will, whose wrists he still held firmly within his grasp. Will found he was too weak to get away—too malnourished. His entire world was flipped upside down.

“B-but—?“ One nurse muttered, confused.

“I said _leave_!” Frederick yelled, angry at their intrusion. They left then, put-out, and Will simply looked down at his wrists, his hands clenching and unclenching, as if he did not believe them to be his own. Frederick sighed sadly and released them.

Will raised his hands high, expecting himself. The florescent lights made them look smaller, and Will’s eyes grew misty again as he huffed a laugh. “…How long has it been?” He asked, afraid of the answer.

“You were going on your third month,” Frederick told him, watching as Will’s eyes widened. Will touched his face, his fingers tracing along his swallow cheeks and sunken eyes, shaking in disbelief. His fingers went to his hair then, feeling how long it had grown, his curls wild.

“… _Three months_?” Will mumbled listlessly, his hands continuing to examine his malnourished body. His blue eyes went to Frederick. “Alana? J-Jack? Abiga—?” Will stopped and one hand went to his throat, remembering how her blood had soaked him—how large her eyes were. Frederick reached over and squeezed one of his arms, his eyes solemn.

“Alana Bloom is well alive, I assure you. Her injuries were critical, however, and there is a question whether or not she will have to use a cane for the rest of her life or not.” Frederick’s own wounds screamed silently then in remembrance. “Jack is now nearly fully recovered, but has stayed in the hospital for his wife, and for any news of you. Abigail Hobbs…She…” Frederick paused, and that was all he needed to know; to understand.

Will closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was staring into the lifeless eyes of Abigail Hobbs. He was helpless as medics rushed to save _his_ life, Abigail pronounced dead on the spot. His whole world had fallen at that moment. He could see it—the two worlds splitting. It was the only way. The only place Abigail could exist in his world: in _another_. She was to be locked inside his memory palace; a _living_ memory.

He could still feel his breath fog the oxygen mask they had put on him, simply watching as he was lifted and carried away while Abigail was covered in a cliché white sheet.

As blood flowed into him, Abigail’s blood was exchanged with embalming fluid. While they stitched him, they had stitched her too. Everything was reversed. It was the end…of _everything_.

“Will, I understand if this is all too much, but Jack and I really need to talk with you abou—”

“ _Shut up, Frederick_ ,” Will growled out, his teeth gnashing, and snatch his arm free. “Do not pretend to know _anything_ about me, about _A-abi_...” He stopped and took a deep breath, a tear escaping down his cheek without his consent. “This conversation—or _whatever_ it is that has you poking around inside my mind is far _beyond_ your reach. Leave me, and do not come again. I do not wish to see you, or _anyone else_.”

Frederick’s eyes were stormy. “You literally have no idea what is going on here, Will. _None at all_. But I can see that you need rest, and I will give that to you.”

“‘Give that to you,’ is it?” Will huffed, unimpressed. “There is nothing that you could give me other than your silence.” Though he was both physically and mentally exhausted he held himself up by his sheer will power. He refused to let Frederick see him any weaker than he already knew himself to be. Frederick huffed a laugh and rose, pulling the lapels of his suit cockily, grabbing his cane.

“I’ll come back when you’re more _reasonable_ ,” Frederick huffed and Will wanted his strength back just so he could throttle him. He would do nothing but sit there and watch as he left. Will hated his body— _this body._ It was not his own, and it did not listen to him.

He hated Hannibal. Hated him with every fiber of his being. He fell back on his bed and broke out into soft sobs, unable to grasp why he had _lived._ His body trembled with overexertion and it only reminded him of his long journey to recovery. Yet again Hannibal had imprisoned him, only this time it was through his own body.

He should have killed him. He should have gone with Abigail.

_He wants us to go to him._

Will only sobbed harder, thinking of the skull, shaking as he tried to muffle his cries with one bony hand. Hannibal had doomed them both by what he had done. Will could not move, and he had no desire to live. Hannibal had taken that from him too.


	7. Digestivo Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hannibal dreamt of it still; that night. He dreamt of many other nights, too. They would have been happy, all of them. But…no. Hannibal knew long ago that whimsical wishes never came to pass, and he had felt it then—rekindled his inner beast; loneliness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LATE. Real life is kicking my butt...I hope you enjoy the chapter!! <3 :)
> 
> Also, a HUGE shoutout to @begintoblur on tumblr bc they helped me soooo much with editing this, and I love them very much!! <3
> 
> Check out their work? :) http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chesapeake_Ripper/pseuds/Chesapeake_Ripper <3 <3

Hannibal’s fingers twitched relentlessly upon a worn window sill. Everything in him was stretched thin and tightly tethered. The man watched as trees passed quickly before his eyes, his facial expression calmer than he truly felt. Everything felt ethereal, and his world felt unhinged. He was in the U.S. now; closer to his goal—to the  _ end. _

Will’s obituary had gone public not two days ago, as well as the time and place for his funeral. It made it more real somehow, and Hannibal had gone out of his head as he had read it. He knew that the probability of him actually attending Will’s funeral was highly unlikely, as he was a good day away from Wolf Trap, Virginia. Though, one way or another, Hannibal would see Will—even if he had to dig him from the earth himself.

Hannibal reached in his pocket and touched the cool steel of a blade. It was familiar to him, and the steel had been worn from touch for many months now. He pulled it out, comfortable in his closure. He opened it easily, staring at the angled curve of the metal. He hated it more than anything. This blade; this extension of his arm.

It had torn the best part of himself, and Hannibal could still feel the sticky warmth of Will’s precious blood. Even if he had washed it, rubbed it until the metal was thin, it was  _ always _ there. It was the first object that caused him regret, and he loathed it all very much. He hated how much it affected him so;  _ despised _ how weak it made him feel—how vulnerable—yet, here he was. That angered him too, and his hand trembled as they held the blade, his fingers curling around it uncaringly. It cut into his flesh easily, the cannibal watching as his blood welled and ran down the steel in thin streaks. His eyes were drawn to the crimson, his mind remembering Will’s pained cry.

Hannibal dreamt of it still; that night. He dreamt of many other nights, too. They would have been happy, all of them. But…no. Hannibal knew long ago that whimsical wishes never came to pass, and he had felt it then—rekindled his inner beast;  _ loneliness. _

_ Lonely _ .

Hannibal knew that all too well. He was better off that way. He knew that. Will had been…an  _ error _ on his part. From day one, Hannibal knew that his world had come to an end. It came to a crashing halt the moment he had looked into Will’s eyes: he saw himself. Through Will’s empathy Hannibal had seen a much younger side of himself: scared, unsure, and full of potential.

Hannibal had let himself fall; be  _ vulnerable. _ He had not been that way in years—decades, even. Mischa had been his whole heart, and his humanity. Will somehow found his way in, and Hannibal had no control over the doors he let the younger man through. He had  _ seen _ him—known him more intimately than even Mischa had. Though, Mischa was only a child when she died. Will…He was a man, and terribly beautiful. Not only physically, but mentally. Will was everything Hannibal had thought that did not— _ could not _ exist: an equal. Now, Hannibal was alone again, and it hurt much worse than before.

Hannibal sniffed loudly, folding the blade up and tucking it back into his pocket. He looked down at a guide the car attendant had given him. With deft fingers, he folded the paper over and over, pouring himself into every crease. Before long he held an atomically correct heart. He smiled tightly, pondering on how the very same hands that had created chaos could create something so lovely. Hannibal crushed it in his hand, his blood staining the paper. He looked out the window again, ignoring the tear that reflected back at him.

* * *

 

 

Will looked at his reflection in the mirror, swallowing hard. He pressed one hand against his ribs, his fingers resting within the swallow spaces. His hair was much longer than when he was imprisoned. He had not had it this long since he was a teenager, and it made him look much younger than he was. His face was smaller, like the skin had been pulled too tightly across the bones.

Will touched one dark eye, seeing a stranger. He was trapped in a skeleton. His hand slowly pressed against his bandaged stomach, his fingers trembling. The bandage seemed to swallow him whole, the blood long dried. They seemed adamant to keep it bandaged, however.

“It’s been nearly three months, Mr. Graham,” A doctor reminded him, the man’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched Will gawk at himself. The nurse at Will’s side tried to smile at him, but it came out more as a grimace. The nurse held onto Will’s left elbow, ready to help him when he decided he wanted to rest again. Will hated her touch; hated how much he truly  _ needed  _ it.

“Yes,” Will sighed, his hand smoothing across his bandage. “May I see it? Please?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer, his fingers scratching softly at the gauze. The doctor shook his head, stepping forward. He placed one hand on Will’s bony shoulder. Will fought against his automatic flinch.

“Dr. Chilton told us to wait. You need to regain your strength, Mr. Graham. That is what matters right now.” Will frowned at him, a peculiar anger growing deep with him.

“Frederick seems adamant on many things when it comes to  _ my _ health.” Will grit out, pulling his elbow free from the nurse. He stumbled away from both of them, gripping his torso when a flare of pain surged from him. He did not understand. It had been months and yet it still  _ burned. _

“Mr. Graham,  _ please _ ,” The doctor half begged with a sigh. “We are only doing what is best for you. It should please you to know that your stitches should be ready to be taken out soon.” Will huffed another breath, swatting the nurse’s hands away. He would rather fall than be coddled.

“Take them out now, and I will be over the  _ moon _ ,” Will hissed in response, staggering over to the wall and bracing himself upon it. The nurse followed and Will grit his teeth in anger. His fingers gripped the bandage, trembling. “I can still feel his  _ touch _ ; do you understand? His horns are tearing me apart from the inside out.” Both the doctor and nurse shared a concerned look and Will huffed a bitter laugh. “Go on, go tell  _ Frederick  _ all that I have shared now.  _ Please _ , be my guest! After all, he’s listening right now, right? Do you hear that Frederick?! Are you getting what you want— _ what do you want?! _ ”

Frederick watched as Will raged on a monitor from another room, both personnel grabbing at him as the malnourished man tried to throw them off to no prevail. Will screamed as he cursed him, weeping, Frederick seeing how tired he was—both mentally and physically. He winced as the fellow doctor stabbed Will’s straining neck with a loaded syringe. Within a minute Will had sagged in their arms, the remaining tears slipping down his swallow face.

Frederick was highly alarmed, concerned. He checked his watch, knowing that Will’s funeral was very soon, if not done by now with the time difference. Jack was to come after the funeral, and they were to tell Will together. _ How though? _ What they had done would surely kill him. They had killed him already, telling what little family he had that Will Graham had  _ died. _ Frederick’s hand wrung the neck of his cane, trembling. Maybe…Maybe what they had done was worse than what Hannibal had done to him.

* * *

 

Jack was numb the entire time. His dark eyes stared at a closed, empty, casket, unblinking as others wept silently behind him: Will’s friends and family. Or, his only remaining family: his mother, Louisa Graham. He had not known—Will never mentioning anything about his family, and Jack had never had the need to ask. Ms. Graham wept as only a mother would, devastated over her loss, and Jack could only offer his arm.

_ What had they done? _

It was all that swarmed Jack’s head as he watched Will’s mother place one trembling hand against the casket they had carefully filled with bags of sand, her tears running down its wooden sides. When Jack had first seen her he had sucked in a deep breath. There was no doubt whose mother she was. She looked so much like Will. Her chestnut curls touched her shoulders, and framed her face as Will’s did. In her hauntingly blue eyes shown the same empathy that he had drained from Will, and Jack loathed himself.

Furthermore, it was Will’s mother that had been adamant that the dogs come; all of them. She had explained that it was what Will would have wanted, but Jack had known that already. Though, he had not thought to actually bring them. Now? Hearing as they whimpered and whined, Jack could feel their loss too. He could hear his employees weep openly—even Freddie Lounds who only came for the act—the dog’s leashes held tightly in their hands waiting as Ms. Graham would come and take them one-by-one to say goodbye to their master. She was a strong woman, and Jack had learned so much about Will in the past few days than from Will himself:

Will was the only child of John and Louisa Graham, and grew up very poor in a small town just outside of New Orleans. His father had been very abusive towards his mother early on, and Will had seen things that no child should have seen. His empathy grew from his experiences, and his mother had very ashamedly admitted that Will had tried to be her shield. Will was shaped into a man at a very early age, because he  _ had _ to be, even when his world was constantly torn apart.

Jack had seen that. Hell, he had ripped it from him so many times he was surprised that Will wasn’t fully in a straightjacket, drooling on himself. From Frederick’s growingly concerning update on Will, the man was getting closer every second. He should have asked him, Jack knows that now. If he had actually taken the time to get to know him personally, and sit with him as he had done with Hannibal, maybe things would have turned out differently.

“Thank you all for coming—” Jack blinked, his eyes burning. He looked up at the pastor questioningly. “The funeral processions will take place at Peasant Grove Cemetery,” The man continued, pressing his hands tightly against the Bible he held in his hands. “Those of you following, if you would please go to your cars, we will be leaving very shortly. May God bless you all in this hard time.” Jack felt like puking. It was over, and he could only grip Ms. Graham’s upper arm, speechless, as she passed him one last time. Her red-rimmed eyes questioned him—searched his very soul.

He could not tell her. He could tell her nothing.

“I-I am so terribly sorry,” Jack breathed for the thousandth time, dumbfounded. Her blue eyes still searched his own, for what felt longer than the funeral’s procession, and she reached up and brushed his hand away. She nodded and sniffed loudly, gathering Winston’s leash tightly in her hand.

“You should be,” She muttered listlessly and Jack’s soul split in two. “My little boy is gone, Mr. Crawford. Though estranged, I loved my son with every fiber of my being. I will never forgive any of you for what has happened; never. Come along, sweetheart,” Louisa finished, looking down at Winston. She left Jack behind, half daring him to follow. Jack didn’t—couldn’t.

Their plan was all but destroyed now, and Jack could not find the will enough to care. The continuation of the burial was to be heavily monitored, and broadcasted all over the news and internet. In death, Will Graham became a martyr. Jack knew he was meant to be there, ready if Hannibal came, but he could no longer force his legs to work. He sat in the church and wept for a long time.

It was not until hours later, far after the burial, that Jack gained the courage to go to the gravesite. Everyone had gone by then, that is, everyone escape Will’s mother—the very person that Jack knew he had to face, even if he did not want to. Ms. Graham stood alone in the snow, the sun shrinking behind the horizon. She trembled from the cold, but stood perfectly still. If Jack did not know that the site was heavily watched—even then—he would have been worried for her safety.

She jumped when he placed his wool jacket over her shoulders. Jack gave the red-eyed woman a tight-lipped smile, sighing a puff of cold air. “What you said earlier, I don’t blame you. I hate myself, too. I should have watched him more closely. I let him get too close. I’ve known this for months.” Louisa simply looked up at him, tugging his offered coat closer even when she half wanted to throw it back at him. She let out a deep sigh, her blue eyes falling upon her son’s simple gravestone.

“He would have done so anyway. William was not one to do nothing when he could do  _ something. _ H-he gave all of himself in everything he did.” She smiled then, teary-eyed, and Jack’s mouth twitched too. “I was so worried when he said he wanted to be a cop. I begged him not too, even when I knew that it was incredibly selfish of me. He had always been with me, Mr. Crawford. He was my baby, even when he never truly was one.” She shook then, wringing her numb hands, her head bowed low. “H-he was  _ so good _ .” Will’s mother wept, pressing her face into her hands. Jack was crying too, feeling her love like a shot to the heart. He hugged her, not knowing what to do. He closed his eyes tight, squeezing the trembling woman lightly.

Jack knew in his heart that he would have to tell her first. He would have done so before, had he known. They should have been more careful in that sense. They should have been more careful,  _ period. _

“Jack.”

Jack froze immediately. He opened his eyes to find Hannibal before him. Will’s mother turned to look but Jack swiveled himself in front of her, immediately becoming a living shield. Hannibal merely huffed a dark laugh, his demeanor harsher than before. He looked tired; how Jack had expected him: raw, and messy. So much unlike the Hannibal Lecter from before. Jack’s eyes saw the outline of a gun in one hand, and the shine of blade in the other. Hannibal had blood splattered across his face.

Jack immediately pulled his gun, aiming it right at Hannibal’s head. Will’s mother let out a sharp cry, alarmed and covered her ears. She pressed herself against his back. “Lecter,” Jack greeted icily, anger welling deep within him. He felt Ms. Graham freeze behind him, the woman recognizing the name even if she had not seen his face. She released Jack then, stepping aside to take a good look at the man that had taken her son.

Jack saw multiple emotions flash upon Hannibal’s usually stoic face in that one moment. He immediately knew who she was, and the bloodied blade slipped from Hannibal’s hands and fell into the snow. He was awestruck, and Jack was grateful as his planted agents crept in on the cannibal, guns raised as high as Jack’s own. Ms. Graham did her own part in subduing the abnormally dazed man, her eyes snaring him in his own living nightmare.

Hannibal blinked and found himself face-first planted in the snow, multiple men yelling orders at him as they pulled him to his knees. They tied his hands behind his back, and Hannibal’s eyes still bore into the eyes of Will’s mother. Jack smiled down at him, like a clever cat, and the captured man could not bring himself to care. 

Hannibal’s eyes flickered over to Will’s gravestone, and Ms. Graham  blocked his view with one hand. He felt tears blur his vision and he lowered his head, the blade that he had used to slay Will buried inches in snow—like Will himself now. He wished that an agent would pull their trigger so he could join him.


	8. A Mother's Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left this for too long…and I am very sorry!! I am updating more fics soon, and I was writing three separate things when I did this one loll. I hope this adds more to the mystery, huhuhuhuhu…I also hope you enjoy!!

Hannibal was unusually quiet as he was stripped down to only his undergarments. They tugged harder than they should have, both Zeller and Price, showing the _cannibal_ all that they could, given their current situation. They both refused to look him in the eye, and Hannibal’s own were unfocused as they exposed all that he was.

The blood was scrubbed until his skin was pink, and his nails were scraped for any more evidence that would damn him. Though, Hannibal knew his fate. Jack would rather him rot in a cell, than die. For all that he had done, Jack would see to it that he not receive what he wanted. Oh, and it was everything that Hannibal _did_ want in that instant.

The very instant he saw _her._ Someone he had thought did not exist—should _not._

Hannibal looked up, as if he could see through the one-way glass. He could smell her. She was there, and her scent assaulted his instincts and probed his heart. He could smell Jack too, and his lips curled upwards almost in a snarl.

“You are cruel, Jack.” Hannibal huffed, his smile sharp as he stared at his own reflection, taunting. “Ms. Graham,” He addressed, with a slight bow of his head, “you stand next to someone who has been blind…Tell me, how many have you lost? How many have you lost to your own pride? I may have shed Will’s precious blood, but it was he who _killed him_.”

The door was slammed open then, and Hannibal smiled wide as both Price and Zeller released him to hold a furious Jack Crawford back. The man’s eyes were black with rage, trembling, and eyes bright with tears. Hannibal spread out his arms, victorious. Hannibal’s nostrils flared then, and he immediately looked behind Jack, alert. Ms. Graham watched him silently, her eyes cutting through his defenses like glass. 

She _saw_ him. She saw him as Will had, and she _turned_ from him. She, who knew of his sins—of his destruction— _walked away_ , leaving Hannibal feeling like a child. Her blue eyes…they told him everything that he needed to know, and more.

_Not worthy._

_The worst_.

 _Sin_.

Hannibal knew that already. He _knew_.

A flash of crimson suddenly assaulted his irises then, and Hannibal blinked back his tears as Alana Bloom entered the room. She leaned heavily on a cane, but her posture told of her strength and victory. She stopped in front of Hannibal, her equally ruby lips smug. “You look like shit, Hannibal,” Alana commented icily, and with the nod of her chin two officers entered the room and forced Hannibal to his knees.

“Alana, you look lovely…considering.” Hannibal said, and Alana held nothing back as she struck him, _hard_ , on the cheek. Her hand trembled, the woman wanting to strike harder but knowing that she could not. Even if he deserved it—and _much_ more.

“I do not need your recognition, nor your mouth, Hannibal.” Alana told him simply, her hand trembling with the grip of her cane, and Hannibal let out a sharp laugh. He flipped the hair out of his face as he glared up at her, sharp teeth flashing warningly.

“You had every use for my _mouth_ , sweet Alana…what more could you ask of it? What fun?” Hannibal’s eyes glistened playfully and Alana held herself back this time, backing up and leaving the room.

“Oh, it may be the best _fun_ I have ever had.” Alana told him as the two officers pulled at him, forcing his limbs into a tight jacket and pressing a white mask over his smiling lips, showing him what use his mouth was. Hannibal’s laughter was muffled with it, but his eyes gleamed brightly.

* * *

 

“For all he has done, they are putting him in a _glass box_?” Louisa’s voice was sharp with fury as they walked into Jack’s office. Her tears burned as she turned them on Jack, whose mouth was agape like a suffocating fish. He let out a deep sigh, not sure what to say—where to begin. Louisa rolled her eyes and walked over to the window, pressing her palms firmly on the peeling seal, her fingers curling into small fists. Jack could clearly see where Will got his temper. 

“Hannibal Lecter—”

“—deserves to _die_ ,” Ms. Graham snarled, turning so quickly Jack could have sworn that it was Will standing before him, her blue eyes holding nothing back. “He deserves a pain worse than death, Mr. Crawford! What he has done— _what he has done to so many people_ —do you not believe that he should _die_?!” She trembled uncontrollably and she pressed her hands to her head, the monstrosity of Hannibal Lecter too much to bear.

“That man…That _creature_ , my Will had been so close to it. _Too close_. I can feel it…how can you not feel it? How was he _blind_ —what blinded him? Was it him?” Jack froze, his eyes widening as Will’s mother became more like Will with every passing second, her questions leaving his skin clammy. She was answering her own questions without a word from him, and Jack could see the very same fear that consumed Will consume _her._

“Stop, Ms. Graham, _please_ ,” Jack half begged and pulled her close, feeling the woman tremble violently in his arms. Her fingers curled in his jacket, and Jack could feel her loss so very deeply. He could no longer bear it. “I must tell you something…I should have told you the moment I saw you, but I did not know how…I-I— _we_ —we had no idea that you even existed…” Will’s mother pulled away from him then, her blue eyes curious as they were hurt.

“Not a word?” She asked softly, her voice broken. “Will? After all this time?” Jack did not understand her words but he shook his head in reply.

“Will…He, uh, was a very closeted man. He shared nothing, and I asked nothing.” Jack paused then, barking out an ugly laugh and shaking his head. “No, I asked _too much_ , but did not find the time to ask what I _should_ have. I could not save him from his fears, and forced more on hi—”

“—Tell me what you should have told me,” Louisa half demanded, not wanting to hear anymore of Jack’s regret, tears running hotly down her ruddy cheeks. “ _Tell me_ , because it is all that I have left.” Jack’s eyes flickered to the door, the room suddenly a threat. Ms. Graham’s eyes followed and she took a step back, studying the very way he held himself.

Jack licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He did not know how to say it—saw no other way:

“Will is alive.”

Jack watched the color drain from Ms. Graham’s face immediately, the woman’s blue eyes rolling in her skull. He was nearly too slow to catch her as she fell.

* * *

 

“What do you mean Will’s _mother_?” Frederick hissed into his phone, his hair disarray in his distress. He pressed his free hand on his forehead, half stumbling as he plopped into a chair, his elbows pressing against shined wood. “ _Jesus_ , Jack—” He huffed, rubbing his hand down his face. 

“—Here? When? No, Will does not know; you told me to wait for you! Yes, yes, he is sleeping…No, he had to be sedated again— _do not yell at me_!” He paused as Jack continued to roar in his ear, wanting to throw up. “Just…just get here. Soon.” Dr. Chilton ended and hung up, ridding himself of Jack’s temper—and voice—immediately. He had grown more terrified with every word that Jack had yelled into his ear, desperately wanting it all to be a horrible nightmare.

* * *

 

Freddie scrolled through the pictures she had taken of Will’s funeral. She had great shots—almost too many to even choose from. Though, she eventually did with much glee. Her chosen few were mostly of Will’s mother, her curiosity overtaking her sympathy. 

She had invited her, after all. Though, she had not known that no one else knew of her—or even considered the _possibility_.

The resemblance was downright _scary_.  

At age fifty-four, she held a timeless beauty and grace about her, and Freddie had no doubt her son would do the same. Her face heart-shaped and petite, her blue eyes seemingly large because of so. Her eyebrows were darker than Will’s, but no less full. Her lips were shaped much like her son’s, but more plump. her lithe neck powerful, and her posture holding the weight of many present and past struggles. The sadness in her eyes was undeniable in their weight, and when she walked, she walked with her head high—one of few differences from Will that Freddie could make out.

_Strong._

Ms. Graham was no stranger to pain—to loss. It made Freddie more curious. She wanted to know _more._ What was Will hiding all these years—what was _she_?

* * *

When Will woke, he knew that it had been for many hours. His limps were very stiff, and his mouth drier than any desert. He did not move, however. He did not see the point. This body…it was not his own. It was better to escape into his mind. Poisonous or not, it was all he had, and there we could walk freely. Though, his palace walls were filled with memories best left untouched.

He stared at nothing for a long time, the white walls of his cage suffocating. Frederick had listened to his request; the only blessing found. He had not come to him…not yet, anyway. Though, Will knew that his luck could only stretch so thin. So, when three nurses came in, telling him that he was to expect a visitor, Will very limply allowed them to sponge him clean, dress, and feed him; his eyes unfocused as he desperately tried to drown out any positive word they may have said. He did not want their sympathy, and _loathed_ Frederick’s.

Will wished he could retreat further into his head, but he was too weak to do much of anything. All he could do was wait. It was no longer his life, but someone else’s. It was no longer a life worth living. And as the nurses placed him in a horrid mint green reclining chair, prepping him as if he were a doll, Will very much wanted to die. He closed his eyes and wished as such, thankful for the constant ringing in his head, as all sounds were drowned out at once.

“…William?” The sound of his name burst through every door in Will’s head. The _voice_. The _smell._ It brought him back to reality like a punch to the stomach. He opened his eyes and looked at _her,_ knowing that it really was her looking back. Jack was behind her, his head low, but Will’s mind could only focus on one for now.

Eyes welling despite himself, Will found himself trying to speak. His voice was useless after many hours to himself, so he merely freed one of his arms from the cocoon of blankets he was swaddled in and raised it to her.

 _Please_ , Will heard himself think meekly, scared. He felt her arms then, her sobs jarring his bones. For once, he let himself be held. He did not push her away; could not. Hot tears mixed with many kisses that littered his hands and face, his mother showing no restraint as she held him. Will found himself clinging to her, shocking himself as she forced herself back into his mind.

“… _M-m-m_ ,” Will tried despite it all, his arms trembling as his hands buried themselves in her blue sweater.


	9. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the lateness!! I have had a difficult few months, but I took the time to type this out!! Sorry about the violence in this chapter, but I honestly felt like that is what would happen under the circumstances...and Jack has had it coming tbh!!

“We have no need for another physician,” Chilton rather snapped, tossing a handful of papers upon his desk carelessly, tucking his hands in his pockets. The rather plump man before him smiled none the less, his eyes sharp as Frederick’s tongue.

“You have seen my credentials, Dr. Chilton,” He said cheerfully, one hand appearing from behind his back to gesture at the scattered papers enthusiastically. “I am perfect for whatever you need. Be that legal, or… _otherwise_.” Frederick turned to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. The man smiled widely, his own eyebrows rising, head cocking to the side. “I am joking, my good doctor; clearly!”

“…Clearly,” Frederick repeated, one hand gripping the back of his chair. He wiped his brow, feeling eternally nervous.

“Is something on your mind, dear Dr. Chilton? A patient, perhaps?” The other asked and Frederick gave a tense laugh.

Yes, of course there was— _three_. Will Graham, his _mother_ , and the very recently captured Dr. Lecter _._ What a mess to be in. He felt as if the tides had risen, and he was on the verge of drowning. Yet, to be the one in charge of such a disaster, he was expected to be collected—not the nervous mess he currently was.

“I could help! Offer you guidance, if you need!”

Frederick truly laughed then, plopping down in his chair and smiling up at the carelessly nosy man. “Whatever credentials you have, _good_ doctor., I have already told you my answer. Also, this ‘ _ad_ ’ that you say brought you here…I do not remember it; nor hearing of it. As of a month ago, I became the ears and eyes of this hospital. I do not remember it. Therefore, I do not trust it.”

“Please, before you dismiss me, would you call the Director of this establishment? I have talked with her before this meeting, and I was assured a position. In fact, she mentioned a high-risk patient—whom I am guessing is the cause of your stress—”

“— _Director Flemming told you_ —?” Dr. Chilton half gasped, half tripping in his attempt to stand. The man blinked in surprise, smiling snakelike. He gestured at Dr. Chilton’s landline, fingers extending dramatically, eyebrows raised in challenge. Growing angrier by the second Frederick snatched the phone off the hook and speed-dialed the woman in question’s number. It picked up on the first ring.

“Good morning, Director, I have a man with me—” Chilton grasped for a name and looked at the man pointedly.

“Dr. Doemling,” The doctor supplied, his smile only growing brighter.

“—Dr. Doemling, that is here in response of an ad, and by your request?”

The voice on the other end paused awkwardly, coughed once, before saying, _“…I am pleased that he made it there…His resume was quite astonishing, was it not?”_

Frederick huffed a laugh. “Ma’am, why did you not tell me of his visitation?”

The line cracked again, _“T-that is none of your concern…Do you know where you stand, Dr. Chilton? Where I?”_

“Yes, yes…I know who you are to this establishment, but…”

_“—B-but? You clearly do not understand your limitations. I could change that for you.”_

“No Ma’am, I do not mean to overstep my welcome…however, I have been placed here for a reason—” The line truly jolted then, and Frederick grew slightly weary in concern. “…Ma’am?”

 _“…As have I, Dr. Chilton!”_ The voice half yelled, and Frederick had to pull the phone away from his ear completely, shocked. He gave a quick glance to Dr. Doemling who simply smiled smugly at him, brushing his already buffed nails upon his too tight white lab coat.

“No. No; if he is who you wish, then I will take him, but know that there might be repercussions from the F.B.I. He spoke of a patient…Does he speak of… _him_?” Frederick looked at the other man before pressing his lips closer to the phone, and turning, “Patient W. G.? I-I yes ma’am, if that is what you wis—” The call was ended abruptly and Frederick paused, the phone still pressed to his ear even if all he could hear was the beeping of the dropped call. He pressed the phone back on the receiver, confused.

“Am I not needed here, after all, Dr. Chilton?” Dr. Doemling asked, the corner of his lips curled. Dr. Chilton felt his upper lip twitch, but he nodded anyway, albeit reluctantly.

“Yes…You seem to know who—” Frederick swallowed and closed his eyes, “W. G. is? Did the Director tell you everything?”

“No, sir! She told me his name, and not much else! That is why I am here, you see…to learn from you, so I may assist him in any way that I can!”

“Then you have much to learn,” Frederick sighed, the responding smile the man gave him doing nothing for his nerves.

* * *

 Louisa watched her son sleep, brushing her knuckles soothingly on the side of his emaciated cheek. His sleep was deep, and the purple beneath his eyes alarming. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest, she would think him truly dead.

He surely looked the part.

Sighing, she laid her cheek against Will’s hospital bed, her body awkward in its position of the plastic chair she had been given. She curled a few fingers loosely around her son’s chilled hand, thinking upon what Jack had told her hours prior, and her own response to his outright cruelty:

* * *

 

“Louisa…He is very weak,” Jack had said to her as soon as they were behind secured doors, their conversation purely between them. He turned away from her, running his hand down his face. He paused for a long time, his voice tight when he said, “Look…Will does not know. He does not know any of this. Not Hannibal, not me, not Alana…not even himself.”

“… _What_?!” Louisa felt herself growl, unable to deny the pure rage that bubbled forth in her son’s expense. “What have you been doing all this time?! What game are you playing? _What are you trying to do to my son_ —!?”

“— _Save him_!” Jack screamed back, the passion in his voice and face causing Louisa to pause, eyes wide. Then, without warning, she raised her hand high and struck him, hard. Jack’s face was one of pure shock, the force of her blow causing his head to reel to one side. With heated tears in deep blue eyes, her hand rose again, Jack tensing for the following blow, eyes closed in acceptance.

Instead of striking him again, Louisa held back, her voice cracking. She recoiled from him as if he were poison, her hands curling in on themselves in restraint. “Y-you _bastard_ …how can you say that to me?!” She demanded, her tears streaming freely, damning him. “How can you say that after what you have done…You have ruined him! You have _killed_ him! _It was you_! That _beast_ may have been the one to tear him open, but you! _You_! You are the one that dug his grave and put him in it… _You_! _How dare_ …!”

“ _I-I did not know what else to do_!” Jack roared back, trying to explain, with no heat behind his words. He knew what he had done to Will was worse than what Hannibal had. He had known for months. Now, he was just relying on his motive in the very beginning, before all Hell had broken loose. “We needed to catch Hannibal! A-and Will…! They were _friends_ —intimate in ways that perhaps we even do not know—I _needed_ to know! I thought that this would help Will, give him a chance to heal and move on with his life—!”

“— _How_?!” Louisa screamed back, her arms extending in heated motion, her curls flying. “By killing him?! You used my son as bait, Mr. Crawford! You dangled his wounded flesh in front of the devil, stroking your own bloated ego! And for that, I pray you get what you deserve…For you deserve much worse! And I am done with you—Will is _done_ with you—” She turned her back then, content on leaving him frozen forever, and walked to the door.

“Ms. Graham, wait—!” Jack called, grabbing her by her forearm. Louisa coiled like a snake and Jack found himself at the mercy of her hands again, as she let loose her fury; uncaring as she struck him multiple times, feeling as if she had to in Will’s defense—for his sake.

“ _Let go of me_!” Louisa roared as she tore her arm free. “You will not touch me! Y _ou will not touch my son_ —you will not approach him ever again! I do not care what your intentions were— these are mine: you touch him, and I will _destroy_ you!”

“You’re _threatening_ me?” Jack huffed, arms raised in defense should he be struck again. “I could have you detained for what you have done here, if I wished! Will’s mother or not, you will behave yourself! You will see your son, but you cannot tell him any of this! You cannot behave this way—do you understand? Perhaps you will when you see him…”

“What have you done to him?!” Louisa hissed, her eyes wider than before, going from pure rage to horror in ten seconds flat. She flattened her back against the door, growing more unsteady by the second.

“I— _we_ —have done nothing to him! We have only been taking care of him, I assure you…I admit that I have not done all that I should…but I did not know how to tell him. He is so fragile…I’m frightened what should happen if we tell him.”

“‘ _When we_ ,’” Louisa corrected for him icily. “William is strong. If he weren’t, he would have been dead a long time ago, Mr. Crawford. My son will know the truth, even if he has to hear it from me. I will not allow this to go on for a second longer—take me to my son!” Jack looked at her oddly, but he swallowed and nodded all the same.

“Then I will leave the judgement in your…capable hands. If you see him and think him ready, do so.”

Louisa huffed angrily. “ _Coward_ ; I am done with you.”

“Not yet,” Jack told her with a tight smile, regretful.

* * *

 

Louisa felt her eyes well with tears as she gazed upon her son, her hand trembling against his own. She was frightened for her son, and of the caged monster that had had once been Will’s ‘friend.’ “What are you doing?” She whispered to him, kissing his fingers. “What have you seen?"

* * *

 “Jack, I want to introduce you to Dr. Doemling,” Frederick said in a tensed greeting, looking annoyed as said Dr. clasped Jack by the hand and began to make pleasant conversation with him. “Yes…He is to join the team of W. G., as ordered by the director herself.” That got Jack’s attention who turned to him in confusion and anger, dropping his hand.

“All of our doctors have been specially selected by the F.B.I itself. Frankly, if you’ll forgive me, I do not understand why you stand before me.”

Jack’s words did not phase the plump man, who replied, “The director herself has agreed to my services, and please be rest assured that I have been thoroughly investigated by the F.B.I in relation to being hired for this position! All of this can be found in the papers that are scattered upon Dr. Chilton’s desk!” Jack gave a sharp look to Frederick, who responded with an annoyed, nervous, smile.

“I wish to help young Graham in any way that I can!” The man continued on, “I sure am glad that the perpetrator has been caught…horrid man that he is! Speaking of which, is that a conversation best left unsaid? How much does Mr. Graham know, might I ask? I would very much like to start right away!”

“Whoa, slow down there,” Jack told him, actually chuckling out loud at the man’s keen interest in Will’s well-being. Frederick was clearly uncomfortable with the man, wincing when he said Will’s name so confidently. It did not settle in his stomach well, though it appeared fine by Jack’s standards, who seemed to accept his willingness to ‘help.’

“It is best to stick to the job alone, I am afraid. Will is still very unstable, both mentally and physically.”

“Of course, of course,” the doctor agreed with the shake of his head, eyes more sympathetic than Frederick thought to be natural.

“Walk with me,” Jack said with the gesture of his head and walked out of Frederick’s office and into the hall, both Frederick and Dr., Doemling following after him quickly. Jack’s next statements were rather forced, his demeanor rigid. “Will’s mother is currently with him…has been for a long time now—Frederick, how long has that been exactly?”

“A little over seven hours…with Will floating in and out of consciousness. She has stayed to witness quite a lot, even seeing her son’s bandage be checked and cleaned. She will not move an itch, or so our staff has told me.” Frederick fished his hand in his suit pocket and pulled out a small tablet, checking the monitor upon it. Dr. Doemling watched it with keen interest. “It looks like Will is awake again…Oh, to be in that room now—”

“—Frederick,” Jack interrupted, growing angry, and Frederick huffed in irritation.

“His mother is currently cutting his hair,” Frederick said with a scoff of awe before tucking the gadget back in his jacket. “I sure hope she has a steady hand.”

“She does,” Jack huffed out without further explanation. “Come on, if you are to work with us, you will need to know the ropes, and I expect a lot from you. I want only the best, and I expect nothing less.”

“I will do all that I can to assist in the well-being of Mr. Graham, Mr. Crawford, rest assured! He is in good hands,” Dr. Doemling finished, smiling widely at Jack who gave him a tense one in return.  

* * *

 Will sat limply in the green chair in his room, his mother perched upon a creaky plastic one. Locks of dark hair lay scattered below their feet, Will now resembling the ghost of his former self. “There…that must feel much better?” Louisa questioned softly, lowering the scissors she held in her left hand.

Her son’s hair had been the longest she had seen since his teenage years, and it brought a sickening feeling to her stomach. She knew that it did Will too, so she practically demanded a pair of scissors when he finally woke again and stayed so, hoping to bring him a small comfort.

Will’s cheek was pressed against her other hand, his eyes closed as a doll’s. He opened his eyes slowly, raising one hand to touch his curls, his fingers grasping shorter strands. “Thank you,” he told her simply, his cheek still nestled in the comfort of her palm, his eyes closing again in odd content. Louisa gave him a stiff smile, her tears long dry, her eyes red-rimmed. She feared to move her hand, not only enjoying the comfort of his living flesh, but knowing that he silently needed something to ground him. Like he had when he was a child.

“Do-do you remember when you fell into the river?” Louisa asked, trying to distract her son from whatever dark thought flickered behind his purpled lids. She curled her forefinger under his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Late November…You were chilled to the bone, clothes nearly frozen to your skin…You looked the same, and frightened me half to death; as you do now. But you were brave, baby. Very brave. You pulled yourself out then, you can do it now.” Will’s eyes bore into her own cautious ones, his tongue and eyes heavy.

“I remember who put me there.” Will said meekly, and Louisa stiffened at his response, her eyes clouding in confusion and slight fear. Her hand dropped immediately, going to rub restlessly at her skirt. She shook her head once, then twice, her eyes telling her son that she would venture no further.

“…Let me enjoy you,” Louisa told him instead. “Do not take this away from me. Not yet. Let me hold you—” Will leaned away from her embrace when it came, his eyes stronger than his body. He shook his head, shifting awkwardly in his green prison.

“There is nothing left to be enjoyed,” Will said, his voice icy with honesty. “I am weakened in this state—this _body_ —” Will gestured at himself with disgust, his fingers itching mindlessly at his bandaged torso. “I cannot fight what you yourself may bring to the surface; and you undoubtedly will, Louisa.” Will’s mother winced at the use of her name, the way her son’s tongue lolled it forth; _unfamiliar._

“It has been over a decade.” Louisa said, her fingers twining in her lap, restless. She looked down at her hands, her nails scratching mindlessly at the ring finger of her left hand. Will’s eyes followed, his eyes weighed.

“It could be a hundred years,” Will said in return. “…When you left, I meant what I said. I do not claim you, nor do I know you. You come now because I am all that is left—” Louisa shook her head sharply, the tears in her eyes falling, but Will refused her, “—I cannot be what you have come for—I am not your son.”

“But you are!” Louisa cried, standing to her feet. The chair clattered to the floor loudly, and Will winced as his head spun. In his daze, she took his face in her hands, looming in close. “I have honored your wish for a long time, but when I saw that you had _died_ —I had to come for you! Cursed blood or not, a mother’s love is not easily banished! I have followed this Freddie Lounds for years…and you cannot understand the pain that pierced my heart! I-I can still see your eyes!” Will’s blue eyes were wide, filled with confusion. He gripped her forearm, his fingers trembling.

“…M-my death? E-eyes? What do you mean?” Will asked, his blue eyes round with confusion and growing terror. Louisa froze then, her blood running cold.

It was out.

It was out, so _easily._

Will’s mother went to her knees, Will half tumbling down with her. Their entire world seemed to stop, both Grahams turned against the world; lost.

“What is going on?” Will begged, needing and not wanting her to continue. “Please, please, _please_ ,” Will half whispered, frightened by the way she shook her head.

“Will…” She said gently, terribly soft, and Will shook his own head; dizzy.

“Why are you here? Why have you come now?” Will wrapped his hands around her smaller ones, pulling her away from him. He trembled, his wound blossoming with rekindled memory. “ _Why are you here_? _Why are you here_?” He repeated, his brain scrambling for an answer that would calm him. “What do you know that I do not? _Dead—me_? You cannot do this…! _Where am I_? _Why am I_ —?”

Will began to truly panic then, pushing his weakened body from the unnerving comfort of the stiff green chair that held him. His mother called out when he tried to stand, his legs folding beneath him, grounding him in a way that his brain could not. His eyes searched the room like two rolling glass marbles, their purpose gone. “J-Jack…? F-F…? _H-H-Hanni_ —?” Will half cried, his arms coming up to shield him from the world, as his heart lurched to his throat; gasping horridly as his brain tried to make sense of nothing at all.

“Will— _Will_! Breathe!” Louisa’s voice demanded, pulling his body close to her own. It was one of practice, and she pressed his head against her shoulder, one hand going into his curls. “Breathe with me; _breathe with me_! You’re fine— _safe_ —no one will hurt you ever again; _breathe_!” Will was not listening—could not—and Louisa felt herself begin to panic when his skin began to turn a bluish hue, his eyes rolling. She heard multiple footsteps down the hall, and she gathered her son the best she could, as she cried out: “Help me! Help me, please!” 

The door was opened within seconds, Dr. Chilton, Jack, and a man she had never seen before running into the room. Beyond gone in her grief, she eagerly handed her son to the staff that reached for him, following close behind when they took him to his bed. Jack and Frederick both tried to follow as well, but Louisa stopped them with her full body, her arms spread wide. To the shock of both men, her response was the same as it was with Hannibal: unrelenting, and un-wielding— _unworthy._

 


	10. Louisa Graham (my art)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to share with you guys the drawing I did of Louisa...but I am technology challenged and have no clue how to imbed the image on here. None of the examples worked, so I'm just dropping the link!! And yeah, I'm on tumblr too--@sofancydancy--please feel free to drop in and say hi whenever you'd like!! I'd love to hear feedback from all of you!! ❤️❤️

Just Louisa:

http://68.media.tumblr.com/d0e3c37927ec9fab56a0fc3d62d79bb9/tumblr_ouv2ax2IJO1tu9qefo1_1280.png

Whole post:

http://sofancydancy.tumblr.com/post/164315419892/may-i-present-the-grahams-this-is-my-own-oc


	11. The Quiet of the Stream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will took deep breath, his lungs filling with crisp autumn air. His hand gripped the wooden handle he held, a few fingers fixing its long line. He opened his eyes to bliss, the bubbling stream familiar and easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THAT I LEFT THIS SO LONG! I never meant to, but life has been crazy. I won't be leaving this as long as I did again!

Will took deep breath, his lungs filling with crisp autumn air. His hand gripped the wooden handle he held, a few fingers fixing its long line. He opened his eyes to bliss, the bubbling stream familiar and easy.

Safe. Better.

_You can make it all go away. Put your head back. Close your eyes…Wade into the quiet of the stream._

He liked this stream…this _dream._ He could almost smile here; breathe.

“You’re fading,” A voice told him calmly, and that too was familiar. Will took another short breath before turning his head to look at Abigail. She bled still, her youth forever stained crimson by Hannibal’s hand; his _own._ Her life’s blood flowed endlessly into the water below them, dyeing it with their sin. “You wish to go?” She asked curiously, the wound upon her neck mimicking the movement of her mouth, cruel and taunting. Will simply watched her, studying his sin and wondering if her memory would stay until everything turned black. After a while he turned back to his line, pulling it back in before casting once more. Abigail smiled, the fishing rod she held in her own hand limp, bloodied, and the line snapped. Her lure was gone as she was.

“I’m…tired,” Will tried to explain, but it was not near enough. Not true enough. He closed his eyes tightly, the feeling of her blue eyes boring through the darkest parts of his soul. “He _promised_ me this,” he started again, his voice cracking. “ _You_ …Florence,” Will half croaked with a shake of his head. “Am I cowardly for wanting _this_?” The stream roared in response below them, Abigail turning to look out into the hazy forest around them; lost in Will’s memory.

“‘…Put your head back’,” Abigail mumbled under her breath, like a prayer, “‘Close your eyes…wade into the quiet of the stream.’” Will jerked his head in a repetition of sharp nods, his smile sharp and miserable. The fishing rod slipped from his trembling fingers and fell into the crimson water below, the color dark and rich. The smell of iron made his eyes water and he gripped his head tightly, broken.

“ _He has taken everything from me_ ,” Will half cried, his desperation wracking his body in sharp tremors. “My body is weak— _failing_ —and I am dead— _dead_!”

“Your body lives on,” Abigail told him simply, the feel of her icy fingers causing Will to open his teary eyes to stare at her. “He let you _live_ , Will.” Will huffed, disbelief lodged tight in his throat.

“To die from his mark, and _alone_ ,” Will lashed out, his panic rising as the blood below them, as it had _that_ night. A flash of ebony caught his eye and he jerked his head to stare at the stag whose’ eyes knew him more than he ever could. It bowed to him, the beast’s legs low with a grace that only belonged to Hannibal. Will half snarled at it, the rage and woe spilling out into a deep nightmare.

“You have never been alone,” Abigail murmured to him, soft, her fingers gripped like hooks in his shirtsleeve. “He has never let you be alone...You are as alone as he is. He would never leave you. You and he have begun to blur…Even here he remains. In your dreams, and your deepest hopes and thoughts. Do you think he would let you die, Will?” Will snatched his arm away, sloshing in red to get away from her; _him._ He gripped his chilled arm, the feel of an I.V. still cold and painful in his forearm, bringing him closer to reality; _life._

“It is not his choice if I live or die! It is no one’s choice but mine!” Will growled out through sharp teeth, glistening and wild as an animal. His soul hurt, confused and growing more feral by the second. The bloodied waters continued to rise, mimicking his fear, and Will wished it would drown him and be done with it.

“If he wished you dead, you would have joined me that night.” Abigail reminded him, her fingers touching the frayed and gushing gash upon her ashen flesh. Will’s eyes overflowed in his grief, sounds made of deeper wounds than the smile upon his stomach slipping from his mouth. The blood was chest-deep now; Will unable to escape as he gasped and his lungs stuttered in his chest. Abigail simply stared at him.

“I wish that he had,” Will sobbed, frantic as the blood rose to his chin. “I wish his blade had gorged deeper into my very soul! If he wanted it, he should have taken it then!”

“He did,” Abigail told him as he took his last breath before being consumed fully.

Dr. Doemling smiled down at Will, his arms crossed over his puffed-up chest. He watched in growing interest as whatever raged in Will’s mind caused him to toss and gasp out in woe, even on the heavy, expensive, sedative the hospital offered. Louisa Graham stood next to him, her hair and face an erratic mess. She watched as her son strained in the leather restraints fastened to his limbs; her son pinned like an insect.

“This is the worst that he has ever had,” She admitted softly, horrified as she looked up at Will’s new doctor with trust and fear. “He-he used to have them so terribly when he was a child,” She offered when Dr. Doemling’s stare focused on her. “Panic attacks, that is.”

“Yes…” He mumbled off-handedly, looking at Will once more as if he were his favorite toy. “This was more the liking to a _heart attack_ than a panic attack, Ms. Graham. As his body and mental health are so clearly malnourished, any shock may send him in another fit of madness.” Louisa’s eyebrows twitched.

“‘ _Another_ ’?” She asked, her eyes wide.

Dr. Doemling smiled wide, a bounce in his step when he said, “Well, with his past Encephalitis, and his current state in mind, Mr. Graham may find himself in a state in which he may never recover.”

“You mean…he could die if this continues? If he-he has another attack like this?”

“Oh, that is unquestionable, madam! His fever is currently at one hundred and four, and there is a very _heated_ war going on behind those closed lids…I do wonder what that could be.” Louisa flustered at that, her face heating with rage. Before she could comment, however, he asked, “You and your son…You do not get along very well, do you?"

“I do not see how that information could help you help my son,” Louisa hissed through her teeth and Dr. Doemling’s lips pursed, amused.

“Perhaps and perhaps not,” He admitted with a shrug, a small smile upon his lips as his eyes studied her closely. “However, your presence may be his very bane right now. You are a walking enigma, if you don’t mind me saying, madam. You sure have captured Jack Crawford’s interests, if that means anything.” Louisa huffed loudly at the very mention of Jack’s name, her green eyes flickering back and forth in rage. She looked at the closed door, Jack looking in on them through the window on the door. His face could match hers, worn and terrified, and it only sparked her anger further. She turned from him coldly, her hands reaching for her son’s twitching ones.

“I haven’t seen my son in over ten years, and I know now that he will never forgive me for my sins. However, here I am, and here I shall stay until I see him whole and standing on his own two feet once more. I will not let anyone hurt him, Dr. Doemling…not anymore.” Before Dr. Doemling could question her further, Louisa squeezed her son’s hand one last time before releasing it and turning away from him. She walked to the door, ignoring Jack and Frederick both, before she turned back to Dr. Doemling, one hand on the door knob.

“Please take care of him, Dr., and thank you for all that you have done so far. I have someone— _something_ —that I have to confront, and I must do so now while my blood still flows hotly through my soul. For I fear I may not have the courage otherwise.” She looked at Jack as she finished, and saw his eyes widen in recognition and anger. She opened the door and left all three men in a state of shock and confusion. There was only one person that she cared to talk to now, and that was the monster that had taken her son to begin with: Dr. Hannibal Lecter.


	12. Not Enough Meat on Those Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shh, shh,” The Dr. cooed sweet and high, and his voice rang like bells through Will’s poisoned mind. “It’s a small gift for now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write more this chapter, but I've been stuck on this for a good portion of the day. I really enjoyed writing the last part, even if it killed me a little on the inside.

Hannibal’s nostrils flared as he scented the air, his chin tipped up and his lips parting. Pine, snow covered grass, smoke, and…home. He smiled secretly to himself, immediately knowing where he was headed, despite their pathetic efforts to keep it hidden. It was late in the night, nearing closer to midnight. Had they hoped lack of rest would hinder his senses? 

“Maryland State Hospital?” He asked, turning his head in the direction of Alana’s sweet perfume. She huffed an annoyed sound, looking into Hannibal’s tempered cage. His eyes were covered with a black sash, and his breath fogged his clear mask as his smile grew wider. He was bound in a straight-jacket, and said straight-jacket was pinned to the van’s metal side. He was trapped. Yet, he still sounded as if he had the upper hand. It felt like he did, and Alana hated him for it. Hated him dearly.

Alana picked at the crimson lacquer upon one forefinger, intent on ignoring him. She stopped when Hannibal’s head turned down, listening to the polish flaking off, and her irritation. Alana’s upper lip curled and she used her cane to hit the tempered glass. Hannibal never moved, but his increasingly pleased smile pissed her off. The men in the van were tense around her. Trained men, heavily screened, and Alana could see how they refused to look at him. Alana had no doubt that Hannibal could smell their fear.

“For now,” Alana answered stiffly, flicking the last bits of the polish off her finger. “Then again, who knows? I may just leave you here. Lord knows no one will care either way.” Letting out a soft sigh, she uncrossed her legs and the men around her froze when she pulled a pistol from the holster on her hip. She pointed it at Hannibal’s head, her hand steady, one leg crossing the other once more; nonchalant.

“Wait; you can’t—!” One of the officers hissed and Alana’s blue eyes pinned him on the spot, the man backing down almost immediately. Hannibal smirked.

“You have them well trained. Do they fetch, too?”

“They fetched you,” Alana half cooed and cocked her gun. Hannibal’s chin lifted at the sound. “You know, everyone would rather me shoot you right now and spare the tax-payers’ money. I’m sure Will would want me too, as well.” Alana knew she was being cruel, but the look upon his face urged her further. “He wouldn’t blame me. No, I think he’d rather he did it himself. Am I wrong?” Hannibal’s smile had melted clear off his face, and Alana felt her blood run cold as the air was sucked from the vehicle. His upper lip was curled over his teeth, and she could practically hear the growl trapped behind his clenched jaw. Alana couldn’t help the pleased smile that turned her crimson lips heavenward, nor the hot tears that were in her eyes as she thought of Will. She lowered her gun, resting it upon her crossed leg with her finger still upon the trigger.

“For you to come back. For you to be so easily captured…Why did you come back?” The last question was full of fear and woe as she thought of his promise to her. As did her desire to know him; truly understand what lurked in his deep halls of his mind.

“Fit the pieces how you’d like, Alana. Revenge, hatred, love…family. Choose what you will.” Hannibal murmured after a terribly pregnant silence, the cockiness completely gone to reveal a sad, sad, man. Alana’s tongue ran over her lower lip as she considered him, no pity to be had for him. He deserved any sadness that they could give him, and then more so.

Before Alana could comment further, her phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. She slid her gun back in its place before she answered it, paying no mind to the cannibal in front of her. “This is Bloom,” She answered simply. “I’m sorry…she wants to what? Jack, I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Especially so soon after the funeral. No, we’re nearly there. He could smell it. Yes.” Hannibal’s head was cocked to the side, listening so intently that Alana stuttered in her speech. “C-call me later, Jack. Tell me then. Tell me everything.” Her heated tone was responded by Hannibal shifting in his restraints, his curiosity overwhelming. Jack continued to ramble on as she ended the call, her eyes pointedly on the road again.

“What games are we planning now with uncle Jack?” Hannibal asked her, his voice laced with venom and curiosity. He smiled at her silence, but his soul ached deep and terrible. When the van eventually stopped, Hannibal’s brain was on fire with questions and violence. He gnashed his teeth when hands grabbed him from his cell, blinded and bound. The hands pushed and strapped him further into a metal gurney. The strap was pulled too tight around his ankles and Hannibal half snarled when he felt his body lift as they moved him.

“Welcome home, Hannibal,” Alana said cheerily and opened the door for them to wheel Hannibal in.

\---

"You're sure about this,” Jack called after Louisa, the woman not allowing him to catch up with her. Jack practically had to jog to try.

“More than anything, Crawford,” She said, taking a deep breath when she saw the helicopter before her. “I need to go while my nerves still pursue me to do so.” The spinning blades matched the tumbling of her stomach, and she handed off her bags when two men offered. She turned to him then, pushing her wild curls from her face when they blinded her. “You have done my son a terrible, terrible, wrong. You will pay for it one way or another, in the end. I have heard and seen your side of the story. I want to hear it from his as well. My son will not speak to me, not before, nor when he recovers.” Her eyes blurred with tears as she said so, her expression full of acceptance and tragedy. 

“I will come with you,” Frederick suddenly yelled over the roaring of the helicopter, coming before the two of them out of breath, leaning heavily on his cane. “This is my helicopter, after all,” he finished with a frown as Louisa and Jack both shook their heads. 

“You’re needed here, Dr. Chilton, and you well know that. Hannibal isn’t going anywhere, and he is in Alana’s capable hands. Will knows now, or he knows the bare bones. We have to tell him everything as soon as he wakes. As said before, we need to confess together.” Louisa gave them a tight-lipped nod. A wave of discomfort flashed over Frederick’s face and he looked away, not wanting to admit Will anything at all.

“I do thank you for letting me catch a ride, Dr. Chilton; and Baltimore is so terribly far away…” Louisa mumbled as she stared back at the helicopter, one of her hands pressing against its ebony sleekness. She turned to them once more, eyes dark. “I expect, and hope, my son will wake soon. His doctor, Dr. Doemling, told me that my presence may make it harder for him. This is the best for him right now. Please alert me when he wakes. I will keep my cell close.” Louisa looked at them with fierce determination in her eyes, as well as anger. “I will never forgive either of you. The fact remains, however, that you two are my son’s only hope right now. Fix this. You owe it to Will.” Jack gave her a solemn nod, his guilt gnawing at his very foundations. 

“The time difference will have its wear on you, Ms. Graham. Keep that in mind and rest when you can. We won’t let anything happen to him, we promise you. Have a nice flight.” Jack said and Louisa nodded, turning away. Jack caught her arm. “Don’t let him into your head, Louisa. We have all had the brunt of that consequence; Will especially. Just…be careful.” Louisa looked at him coolly. 

“Will saw him for what he was, Crawford. Befriended the monster of men, as you all have told me. I want to see him as well, as my son did.” Jack felt a chill run through his soul as she said this, but nodded before stepping away. Louisa turned on them both and boarded the helicopter, not looking back. She had a long journey ahead of her, and so did they.

\---

When Will finally woke, he found himself blinking groggily at a face he had never seen before. The strange man had a wide smile upon his lips, one that looked as if it could split his face. Even heavily sedated and terribly broken, Will’s empathy could see him. See the horns that grew from his head. They reached far in the room and were sharp. They forced themselves in every crevice of the room until they threatened to take the oxygen spared for Will’s shallow breaths. 

Will jolted when he felt a wave of hot nausea rush through him, and the monster that held his arm shushed him with sweet sickness. He tossed his weighted head to the side, his vision hazily revealing the now empty syringe that the doctor tucked in his white jacket. He tried to move his other hand, the heat coursing through his body from the I.V. on his arm. 

“Shh, shh,” The Dr. cooed sweet and high, and his voice rang like bells through Will’s poisoned mind. “It’s a small gift for now. Nothing too heavy…This helped my master with his pain, I am sure it will be bliss for you as well.” Will tried to focus on his words, but they filtered through his head as if they were in a foreign language. 

He did feel good…if only for the feeling of being high above his body. After a while, he did not fight the fingers that traced along his jawline and hairline. He could not. What he could do was stare through the small sliver that his heavy lids allowed him before they closed fully. The last thing he felt was the coldness of something upon his cheek and the gentle pressure of fingers rubbing it into his skin.

“You need to be thicker. This will not do at all.” Dr. Doemling huffed, frowning, as if Will were a simple animal. He continued to gently massage the lotion given to him specially by his master onto Will’s haggard face, smoothing it over his cheekbones and forehead. He sighed when he finished, changing his tune when he knew Will was fully unconscious once more. He then reached over to pinch gently at Will’s cheek, the meat still terribly too thin, as if he expected something different. “Dead, dead, Mr. Will Graham, is it? Master Verger finds the humor in it enough…What a long mark to be left on you.” He finished as he applied a gentle hand over Will’s healing abdomen, pressing until he could feel the puckered skin of his stitched wound. Will was so gone he made no sounds of discomfort. Dr. Doemling let out a soft sound of disappointment. “Better than any brand, I suppose.”

\---

Hours after being brought in, Hannibal stood facing a wall of thick glass. His gilded cage was spacious, yes, but a cage it was. He felt no desire to sleep, and was determined to do nothing at all; feel nothing at all. However, the heaviness of woe and anger flustered deep within his bones set his teeth on edge. The only contentment to be found was in his own mind. He did not move, nor speak. Behind his closed lids, he saw Will. In his palace, Will ran freely down the long corridors and halls, always one step ahead. He lurked behind doors whose knobs had not been touched in years. He gained entry with a smile, a simple gaze that bore through Hannibal’s soul as if it had been a rod of fire. 

Will moved as a specter would, as a siren beckoning him to drown in madness. His lips would part, and Hannibal strained to hear anything. A word, a breath, but nothing ever came. It never would, for his speech had been lost by Hannibal’s blade; by his heated vengeance. 

Hannibal would not catch him. He could only see him, veiled in the shadows, holding the eternally cherub hand of his sister Mischa. They watched him there, hand-in-hand, waiting.


End file.
